Wounded Heart
by Baron Munchausen
Summary: Starts as a 'fixing the mess at the end of the garden party' story and goes on from there.
1. Chapter 1

It had been the worst day of her life.

The weather had been glorious, he had looked so handsome in his three-piece suit, and her summer frock looked really very good on her she was sure. Perhaps not quite so grown up as Mary's, nor perhaps as up-to-date in fashion as Sybil, but she knew that Anthony didn't care about things like that. She had thought that he only cared about more important things, about them, and perhaps about her…just a little. Even a little would have been enough.

Now, the world was at war. And Anthony had broken off any contact with her. He'd left the garden party wearing a false smile that didn't hide the hurt in his eyes, murmuring only polite platitudes. When she had tried to telephone Locksley, Stewart had answered her increasingly desperate enquiries with the utmost care, as though he was being told what to say and being watched to make sure that's all he said.

Mary had been so coldly triumphant as she had raised her glass to her mockingly. It chilled her soul. What had she told Anthony? Edith wasn't going to give Mary the satisfaction of trying to find out from her, but it tortured Edith nonetheless. Anyway, Mary had suddenly become distraught herself only a little while after, and Edith knew to keep well away from her when she was like that.

There was no possibility that she could slip away to try to see Anthony today, but tomorrow she would go round to Locksley in person. She would apologise for whatever it was Mary had said, and at least make her peace with him. This time, on the verge of war, was not a time to be in conflict with the man you loved.

So when Carson came to fetch her after dinner, telling her that there was a telephone call for her (quietly so only she could hear), her heart leapt as though tons of worry had fallen from it. She could only just manage thank Carson and walk out to the hall with decorum rather than running.

"Hello?"

"Lady Edith?" It wasn't him, and her heart fell.

"Er. Yes, speaking."

"It's Stewart here, Sir Anthony's butler. I'm sorry that I couldn't talk freely earlier."

"Oh Stewart, thank you for calling back. I guessed Sir Anthony was…"

"He was monitoring every word I said. I fear something has happened…personally I mean. I know that the wider world has its own troubles."

"You are totally right, Stewart. My sister, Lady Mary, said something to Sir Anthony, and he wouldn't speak to me afterwards. I fear she's poisoned his mind against me. Slandered me even. I don't know what to do to convince him that…that I do truly care for him." Despair had made her trusting, although she knew Stewart, like Carson, would prefer to have his nails pulled out than betray his master.

"I hope that I am doing the right thing. The mood he's in at present, Sir Anthony would have me shot for what I'm about to do."

Edith was silent. If she said anything she might put Stewart off. She murmured encouragingly.

"Sir Anthony has enlisted, re-enlisted actually. He'll be returning to the Intelligence Corps. He's due to leave for London on the 2:30 train tomorrow afternoon. He has told me not to admit anyone before he leaves."

"Oh!" she sobbed.

"But someone might happen to be on the station just at the time he'll be there, just a coincidence sort of thing."

"Thank you, Stewart. God bless you for this."

"…Yes, Sir. Coming, Sir…"

The line abruptly went dead.

* * *

.

It was easy to get into the village the next day. Everyone was so preoccupied with the war that they didn't notice her slip out. She left so early to make sure she was at the station in time, that she actually had more than half an hour to wait in the waiting room.

The envelope in her pocket dominated her thoughts. She had spent half the night writing it and rewriting it. Would he even consent to taking it? If he took it, would he read it? Even if he read it, would he believe her? What could she say to convince him?

There were other men in khaki gathering on the platform. She left the waiting room and stood to one side. No one noticed her. No one ever did.

Except him.

Stewart came from behind the station carrying a kit bag. He quickly scanned the platform and saw her. Then he nodded to her, just once. Her heart was beating so fiercely that she was sure everyone could hear it.

Then he walked out.

Tall, handsome, and in uniform.

She gasped quietly, her heart going hollow with love inside her. His lips pursed as though he were deliberately concentrating on what needed to be done _now_ , and definitely not thinking about anything else, anything he might have left unsaid, anything he may have left behind.

This was her moment. She was more frightened than she'd ever been.

Somehow, she took a few steps towards him, and he glanced around at the movement. Then he too, was frozen, eyes wide.

Before he could have a chance of running away again, Edith walked right up to him.

"Sir Anthony, I was sorry you were called away from the Garden Party yesterday. This is such a dreadful business." She pointedly started with politeness and generalities, although she omitted to clarify if the 'dreadful business' referred to the war or to their parting.

"Yes, quite." He was guarded, cautious, and yet there was a sad, pained expression and that gentle look in his eyes that had become more and more affectionate recently. She thought she probably had it in her eyes too. She forced herself to push forward, lowering her voice.

"I wanted to explain…about my sister, Mary. She and I…well, we don't always get on as sisters should. I have wounded her, I admit, and yesterday, I believe she took her revenge out on you. But I deeply regret any hurt she, or I, may have caused you. That was not my intention, truly."

"Really."

Still, he would not unbend. She heard the train whistle in the distance, and in the panic of her last few moments with him, she threw caution to the wind.

"Anthony" she whispered, so only he could hear, "you are the world to me. Please, for God's sake, come back safely! Even if you hate me, come back! I don't have time to explain, so" she thrust the letter into his leather-gloved hand "please, _please_ read this. I love you so. God bless you, and keep you safe!"

She had done all she could. If he would not listen, then she had to accept that she had lost him. She turned away so he would not see her tears.

She felt a reverent touch to her cheek: he'd removed his glove to touch her. She looked back and saw the love shining in his eyes once more.

"You love me?" he breathed, his voice broken.

"Yes" she shrugged.

"Oh, Edith! I love you too. I love you so desperately! Dear God, I've made such a mess of this."

"Just come home. Please. Come home to me."

"Nothing in the world could stop me, not now I know you do care for me."

The train had pulled into the station, causing bustle around them, but neither Sir Anthony nor Lady Edith were aware of any of it.

"Sir" Stewart urged.

There were no words. Anthony put his other arm around her waist, pulled her to him so that she was totally in his embrace, and kissed her fervently. He let go only at the very last second when the Station Master blew his whistle, climbing into the carriage and taking his kit bag from Stewart as the train started moving again.

They watched each other until the train disappeared out of sight.

"My lady, can I take you home?" asked Stewart with compassion.

"Thank you Stewart" she murmured, "thank you for everything."

* * *

...

 ** _It would appear that Spring has come, and with it my sap has risen. I can't stop writing._**

 ** _Or it might be the poisoning of Mr and Miss Skripal literally 2 minutes walk from my home in Salisbury that has reminded me that time is finite, and I have so many stories cluttering up my head, I really ought to put ass in gear and get them written. Life here has calmed down a bit now, but there are still far too many soldiers and policemen and 'men in black' milling around looking nervous. I will be happier when they've all gone home._**

 ** _Thank you for reading._**


	2. Chapter 2

It had been one of the worst days of his life.

He had been so _sure_. And so happy. He'd arrived fairly early at the Garden Party, early enough to show he was keen, not so early as to make him look desperate. Edith was nowhere to be found. Instead, Lady Mary had approached him.

" _She may have been cornered. I know there was some old bore she was trying to dodge."_

His first response was _oh, poor Edith! But I'll soon rescue her!_ Followed by stunned incomprehension and shock.

" _He's simply ghastly apparently, but he's promised to propose today. I can't tell you how funny she was when she acted it out. She ought to go on the stage."_

Like a sledgehammer between the eyes, he realised that Lady Mary was talking about _him_ , although she obviously didn't know it. _Edith_ had been talking about him. To her family. She had called him a 'ghastly old bore'.

He just about managed to keep up appearances, smiling weakly at Lady Mary's joking praise of her sister's acting abilities, though it felt like a knife in his guts.

Despite running for his car, he hadn't been able to escape without Edith finding him. That was the worst of it. To look at her, so young, so lovely, _and so duplicitous!_ To know that it was _all a bit of fun for her_. He just had to get away.

" _Please make my excuses to your mother."_

* * *

.

He was aware that he was driving too fast. But he had to get home to the safety of Locksley. With the car parked in the garage, he entered by the front door to find Stewart shocked at his arrival so soon.

"Sir?"

"I'll be in the Library, Stewart." He headed off, then turned back quickly. "I'm not at home to anyone, _anyone at all_. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

The Library door slammed shut for the first time in years.

.

Finally, in the privacy and safety of his Library retreat, he collapsed onto his chair and wept.

.

The phone had rung. He thought it was probably Lady Grantham enquiring after his health. It wasn't. It was his old Colonel from the Intelligence Corps. He made the decision there and then, not really thinking straight, just wanting a distraction, just wanting the pain to go away.

It was only then that he truly realised what had happened.

He had fallen in love.

When he had courted Maud, his father had made it plain to him: it was a case of finding a wife that he could tolerate, and who could tolerate him. In the end, Anthony had been lucky: he and Maud actually liked each other, and had grown into an affectionate companionship.

That was what it had felt like with Edith…to begin with. He wasn't really looking for a wife (despite Cora's machinations). He had just found that Edith and he…would do well together, he thought. It felt natural, and fun, to be with her. And yet Lady Mary's revelations had caused him far more pain, much more than if that had been the total extent of his feelings. It was precisely because he had lost her that he realised how much she meant to him. She had touched his soul.

Then she had telephoned.

Stewart had answered and came to fetch him from where he was sorting papers at his desk.

"Stewart, tell her…tell her absolutely nothing. She can't be trusted."

Stewart stared at him, shocked, but did as he was told. Sir Anthony had listened to the entire conversation, directing the butler's every response.

Afterwards he stared out over the orchards, thinking that that was, most likely, the last time he would ever hear her voice.

She had actually sounded upset.

It echoed in his heart, as he packed the last of the documents that he would need.

The bed felt empty and cold. He didn't sleep much.

Next morning, he took the studio portrait Edith had given him and which lived on his bedside table and packed it as well. He wasn't quite sure why he did that, but he didn't take it out again. Then he threw himself into arrangements for Locksley while he was away.

* * *

.

The station was humming with tension. There were other men in uniform, for that he was grateful. As usual, he didn't want to stand out. He wasn't quite sure what he should say to Stewart either. He knew that the man wanted to re-enlist himself, although Anthony had convinced him to stay on a little longer to make sure Locksley was being well cared for before he went. He had even joked with the butler that it would all be over before Stewart could sign up again, knowing that neither of them believed it.

Should he have tried to speak to Edith, if only to lay the ghosts? He pursed his lips at the sharp stab that thought caused.

He saw movement out of the corner of one eye, someone approaching him.

It was her. He stood frozen to the spot, wondering if he were seeing things.

Edith walked right up to him.

"Sir Anthony, I was sorry you were called away from the Garden Party yesterday. This is such a dreadful business."

She was demure and serious. But she was always that speaking of serious subjects.

"Yes, quite." He wanted to say more, but couldn't find the words.

She came closer, lowering her voice.

"I wanted to explain…about my sister, Mary. She and I…well, we don't always get on as sisters should. I have wounded her, I admit, and yesterday, I believe she took her revenge out on you. But I deeply regret any hurt she, or I, may have caused you. That was not my intention, truly."

"Really?" Was this the truth, or another fabrication? Which sister was true, which sister false?

"Anthony" she whispered close to him, his breath stopping, "you are the world to me. Please, for God's sake, come back safely! Even if you hate me, come back! I don't have time to explain, so" she thrust a letter into his leather-gloved hand "please, _please_ read this. I love you so. God bless you, and keep you safe!"

She turned away from him. He panicked, _don't go!_

He removed his glove and reached up to her cheek to stop her.

"You love me?" he breathed, his voice broken.

"Yes" she shrugged.

"Oh, Edith! I love you too. I love you so desperately! Dear God, I've made such a mess of this."

"Just come home. Please. Come home to me."

"Nothing in the world could stop me, not now I know you do care for me" he said, and he really meant it.

He pulled her to him, and kissed her. He kissed her not as he had wanted to up until yesterday…gently and affectionately, but as he had wanted to since he had thought that she didn't care for him and never had…passionately and with every last shred of love in his heart.

The Station Master blew his whistle; he reluctantly released her, and climbed into the carriage, taking his kit bag from Stewart as the train started moving again.

He watched her until the train station disappeared out of sight.

* * *

.

Much later that afternoon Anthony found himself in a smart room in the War Office. As the Colonel explained to him what was wanted from the Corps in the first few weeks of the conflict, he suddenly stopped talking.

"Major?"

"Sir?"

"You were miles away. I know this is a worry for all of us, but let's get back into the habit of being attentive during briefings, mm?"

"Sorry Sir."

The Colonel sat down

"Anthony, I know you as well as anyone. What is it?"

"I'm forty. Am I really up to this sort of stuff, do you think? When we were trying to butter up Kaiser Bill, well, that was one thing, but would I not be putting other officers in danger if I'm not quick enough in the field?"

"You look in pretty darn good nick to me. Is that really it?" The Colonel narrowed his eyes. Anthony sighed.

"Do you know the Crawleys…the Earl of Grantham's family?"

"Not at all. Why?"

"I think I'm engaged to the middle daughter."

"You… _think_ …you're engaged?!" he exclaimed incredulously.

"As of this afternoon. We…had a misunderstanding yesterday, and she came to the train station to see me off, and…" Anthony blushed as he trailed off.

"Look, you're one of my most experienced officers. If you put in an application to stay here in London and direct operations, I would approve it. I'll even promote you to Lieutenant-Colonel right now, if it helps. As you say, you're forty. No one would blame you."

"No one…except myself."

" _Noblesse oblige_?"

"Yes…but also every man feels like this. Every man has something to live for, something they have to leave behind to serve King and Country. I'm no different. If I'm more use over there, send me over there."

The Colonel looked regretful.

"I'm afraid you would be. I'm sorry Anthony."


	3. Chapter 3

She let Stewart lead her back to the Rolls. It felt wrong to be in this car without Anthony. Stewart was at his most discreet ignoring the quiet sounds of weeping behind him as he drove to Downton. When they arrived at the door of the house, Stewart opened the door and helped her down. She was composed again, he noticed with admiration. She held his hand just a little longer than necessary.

"Thank you, Stewart. I am deeply grateful to you" she said earnestly, and he knew she didn't mean for the lift.

"I couldn't bear to see you and Sir Anthony suffering like that, my lady. No matter what, neither of you deserved to be hurt so."

* * *

…

As Edith shut the front door behind her Cora was coming down the stairs with Mary trailing behind her.

"Did I see Sir Anthony dropping you off, Edith? Is he all right? He left so suddenly yesterday." Edith inwardly sighed at her mother's polite enquiries.

"You saw his car, Mama, but not him. I…I saw Sir Anthony off on the train to London. His man gave me a lift home." Any hopes that that would satisfy her mother were soon dashed.

"London? He's not going to the Continent again is he?"

"He couldn't tell me exactly where he was going, Mama, but, yes, he is going to the Continent. He's rejoined his old regiment." This was torture, having to discuss it as though there hadn't been other heart-wrenching things happening to them apart from the war.

"Don't tell me. He's in the Army Service Corps supplying turnips to the troops!" Mary's voice dripped with derision behind Edith. She turned to face her elder sister, but instead of some sharp retort as both Mary and Cora expected, she was silent for a long few moments, just looking at them both with sad, weary eyes.

"Edith. I'm sorry nothing came of…well, you know…but there'll be other gentlemen, you'll see" commiserated Cora, breaking the awkward quiet.

"Not for me, there won't be. No one else but him" Edith murmured, although they both heard it.

"Well, that's a dreadful pity" declared Mary, "because I got the impression he considered you such a silly little girl. Even boring Farmer Strallan was bored stiff, running away yesterday just to escape you."

Cora gave Mary a disapproving look but said nothing.

Again, Edith was quiet and reserved when she responded.

"I know exactly why he ran from the party yesterday, Mary. I apologised to him before he went away…for _both_ of us."

" _Both_ of you?" Cora looked at her two eldest daughters with narrowed eyes. "What's been going on?"

Edith waited for Mary to speak, watching her intently.

"I…I may have misled Sir Anthony…about something Edith said." Unusually for her, Mary looked a little ashamed behind her haughty attitude.

"Is that why he didn't propose?" Cora demanded.

"Perhaps."

"Mary!"

"She deserved it! She wrote that tawdry little letter to the Ambassador!"

"No! This must stop! Now! Do you hear? Both of you!"

"Yes, Mama" Edith answered immediately, contritely.

"Yes, Mama" conceded Mary.

"But don't worry. As I said, I apologised for us both, before he left."

Edith walked upstairs to her room, with Cora gaping after her, wondering which of these two girls was the older now.

* * *

…

But that was nothing compared to the ordeal that awaited Edith at dinner. The conversation was dominated by thoughts of war.

"No, I'm sorry, but it is my duty to offer my services to the Army" Robert argued.

"Your duty is here, Robert. You are the Earl" Violet retorted, as though her point was so utterly clear no one could argue against it.

"And as such I should show leadership, and re-enlist" said Robert helping himself to a third roast potato.

"Poppycock!" exclaimed his mother.

An easy lull settled on the table.

"Sir Anthony Strallan's re-enlisted, Granny." Mary 'innocently' dropped the remark into the centre of the hush like a stone into a well.

"Well then, there you go. If he's done it, I jolly well should" Robert nodded. Then, trying to smooth the ruffled feathers, Matthew asked "What regiment, Mary?"

Mary opened her mouth, hesitated, and then conceded "I'm afraid I don't know. But I think Edith does."

Edith sat up straighter, and looked around the table until she was sure she had everyone's attention.

"He's a Major in the Intelligence Corps. That was one reason why he was sent to try to talk sense into the Kaiser's head. But Solomon himself couldn't have convinced Wilhelm to stop this madness. Anthony did his very best, but the Kaiser would not listen, to him, to the other emissaries, or to his own ministers."

Then she continued eating.

"Anthony Strallan? Was sent over to negotiate with Kaiser Bill?" Robert was shocked, not because he couldn't believe it, but because he had never stopped to work out what his old friend did on his jaunts to other countries.

"Still waters…" murmured Matthew, while the Dowager quietly observed her middle granddaughter deep in thought.

* * *

…

The argument between Robert on one side, and his wife and mother on the other, about whether or not he should re-enlist continued in spurts until the ladies departed for the drawing room, leaving Robert and Matthew discussing their plans alone.

Conversation in the drawing room was less harmonious.

"Of course I don't _want_ Robert to go" Cora protested.

"Then tell him definitively _not to_!" ordered Violet.

"You know it's not that simple, especially not with Robert. He can be very stubborn."

"That, in itself, is not such a bad thing."

"And I wonder where he got that from?" Cora smiled sweetly, earning herself a steely look from her mother-in-law.

"I don't know why you are all arguing about it. Papa's over the age limit" stated Sybil.

"So is Sir Anthony…" Mary pointed out, looking at Edith, who didn't reply.

* * *

…

Violet arrived for tea the next day, to find that everyone was ducking out of it.

"I appear to have stumbled on board the _Marie Celeste_ , Carson. Where is everybody?"

"His Lordship is visiting Mr Drewe at Yew Tree Farm, her Ladyship is taking tea with Mrs Crawley at Crawley House, Lady Mary and Lady Sybil are calling on Lady Marmaduke, and Mr Crawley…"

"All right, all right! I understand that I am all that's left holding up Crawley tradition. Where's Lady Edith?"

"In her sitting room, I believe, my Lady. She considered it inappropriate that we serve tea just for her."

"Well, blow that! Bring tea for two here, Carson, and tell my granddaughter I wish to take it with her in the drawing room. I'm not walking up all those stairs for a scone."

"Very good, my Lady." Carson wondered why Mr Asquith had sent Sir Anthony to talk to the Kaiser when Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham would have been much more effective…although possibly she might have started the war earlier, _and_ won it just as quickly if he knew her. Wilhelm wouldn't have stood a chance.

* * *

…

"Hello Granny. Were we expecting you for tea?" Edith hadn't lived in this house for nearly twenty years without learning how to cast _polite_ doubt on someone turning up unannounced.

"Don't try to be clever with me, Edith. This was my house for thirty-two years, and I usually come to tea. Besides, at the Dower House Agnes' scones are like stones from the walls of Jericho."

Edith took the Dowager's scorn as a compliment that she had done the 'polite doubt' thing correctly, and stored the experience up for the future.

"Have you thought what you might do for the war effort, Granny?" Edith asked biting into a scone as light as a feather. _God bless Mrs Patmore!_

"Keep the home fires burning, I suppose." She sighed. "It was dreadful in the last South African War, with Robert away and not knowing…" She dragged herself away from her memories and back to scrutinising Edith.

"It will be difficult for you, dear girl, especially if he's not posted with one regiment or in one place. He's obviously a clever, discreet, and brave man; a great asset to his country. But you can always talk to me."

Edith understood with gratitude that the older woman had realised everything; she squeezed Violet's hand.

"Thank you Granny."


	4. Chapter 4

_I love you so much, Anthony. Whatever Mary said, it isn't true._

 _I'm sorry to start a letter quite so dramatically, but I just had to do my utmost to make sure you read that, at the very least. Because_ _I do love you_ _._

 _I am so very inexperienced, I admit it. Over the last few weeks, when we were together, I didn't really know whether I should be trying to encourage you, or if you would prefer me to be more demure, more ladylike, more traditional. I tried to stay safely in the middle so that I would have time to learn what might please you best. Until yesterday though, we seemed to understand one another. Now, I feel I have been forced to be absolutely plain._

 _You were the first man to look at me, to_ _want_ _to get to know me, and you are the only person in the world to really_ _see_ _me and value me. Even if Mary has destroyed all my hopes of a future with you, and I hope with all my heart that she hasn't, I do hope that we can continue to be friends. I would miss you dreadfully if you cut off all contact. Now, for the first time in my life, I have enjoyed such a delicious closeness with someone who understands me, and who I believe I understand in return. Someone I want to know better and who I am willing to take time and effort to appreciate. I know that this will not happen often to me because I'm just too awkward; I am well aware that I have very few advantages that appeal to other people. But you looked past all that, and I loved you so. I love you now, even if you never speak to me again. I will love you always._

 _I hope you will not be serving on the front lines in the next few weeks and months. I pray you will safe and return home unharmed, whether you want to see me or not. If you decide you want nothing to do with me, I truly hope you find someone else, someone wonderful to be the second Lady Strallan._

 _God bless you,_

 _Your Edith_

* * *

…

Anthony finally plucked up the courage to read Edith's letter once he had taken his orders from the Colonel and retired to his quarters for the night. Without the physical evidence on paper of her affections, he had begun to think that he might have hallucinated their meeting at Downton station. It was too miraculous that she had intercepted him to convince him of her feelings; it was just too wonderful after the grief-filled night he'd had after the garden party thinking that she had been mocking him for all those weeks…all those heavenly drives…that divine evening at the concert…

Tears came unbidden for the second time in two days, although this time they were happy tears…well, mostly happy. She really did love him. He remembered, for the thousandth time, what it felt like to hold her in his arms, to kiss her…But at dawn tomorrow, he would be aboard the first train to Dover and from there he and a number of other senior intelligence officers would be taken across the Channel and be put ashore somewhere between Dunkirk and Ostend. They would each have different orders and would go their separate ways. Anthony's own mission involved getting to Ghent, Brussels, and then further south if he could, assessing the readiness of the Belgian forces to resist the German advance that was expected any moment, and if the invasion happened to track both armies, report on their numbers and their activities.

Tonight, though, he had to write a letter of his own, so that he could post it while he was still in England. It wouldn't take him that long; he knew exactly what he wanted to say.

* * *

…

Despite the early hour, the train was busy. In addition to all the usual business of the morning, there were a fair few other men in uniform, both army and navy. Anthony looked out the window at England bathing in a glorious golden summer, the fields were being harvested, haystacks standing sentinel across the mellow meadows. Just before Rochester he saw a herd of red deer. One or two of them lifted their majestic heads to watch the train pass, and then bent to continue grazing in the morning mist.

 _This is all surreal. We are at war with our closest European cousins. I chose this of all times to fall in love for the first and last time in my life with a woman half my age, and I may not see her again because of a mad sabre-rattling emperor. Oh Edith!_

* * *

…

Dover bustled, though he didn't remember noticing much of it, he was too busy trying to find a small fishing smack hidden away near, but not in, the naval dockyard. Once he found it, he quietly gave the password to the captain who just nodded his head before returning to readying his boat. Anthony went below and changed into simple clothes: hard-wearing boots, thick trousers, simple shirt, and woollen jumper. He carefully folded his uniform away in his kitbag.

He was no longer Major Sir Anthony Strallan, Bt.

He was just a Belgian peasant.

He was no one.

No name.

No history.

No hope.

* * *

…

 _My darling Edith,_

 _Thank you for writing me that beautiful, brave letter. I promise that I do believe that you love me, although it seems miraculous to me that someone as young and as lovely as you could love someone like me._

 _Nothing else matters. The world has gone mad, and I am in the middle of it, struggling between duty and love._

 _Despite this, despite the possibility that I may never return, despite everything, I want to ask the question I should have asked yesterday. I want to have something that we can both hang on to in the coming weeks and months. Something official.._

 _Will you marry me?_

 _Your Anthony_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Apologies for the wait. I got thoroughly caught up reading the marvellous progress on better stories than mine, among them**_ **The Sadder But Wiser Girl, Chiaroscuro, _and_ _Lady Horse's two current masterpieces_ Through the Ages, _and_ Fascination. _(What are you doing here still? Go and read them!) Then I had to go away for a couple of weeks, and when I got back the UK was BAKING! I know we Brits can be wimps about heatwaves, but we're just not used to it! Our natural habitat is drizzle._**

* * *

.

Robert was still in a mood. Not sulking exactly, just grieving for a time when he was _useful_.

The army had turned him down as a combatant. Instead they had made him some sort of puffed up _regimental mascot…you could do that job better than me, Pharaoh old boy!_

Matters in his own home, his beloved Downton, seemed to be totally in the hands of Cora, Carson, and Mrs Hughes. Mr Matthew, who had seemed to be such a promising heir, eventually, had enlisted, and he was estranged from Mary, and there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.

His mother, wife, and daughters, Mrs Crawley, and Dr Clarkson…sorry, _Major_ Clarkson… _Ha, even a quack gets re-enlisted quicker than I do!_ …were in the drawing room talking about how to accommodate returning injured soldiers at the cottage hospital, but he had been politely but firmly told that his presence wasn't _needed_. _He_ wasn't needed. By anyone.

His father had had a purpose, and all their forefathers before him. He had been _the Earl when it had meant something_. They had commanded respect. Blast it all! Some of them had commanded _armies!_ But this… _this_ was the thin end of the wedge, he could see it. He was unwanted by the country, the army, the county, the estate, or his own family. The peerage was dying a slow, unhappy death, discarded to uselessness, while the rest of the world marched onward to _progress_.

He strode across his land while it, at least, was still his, his loyal Labrador loping after him.

It was when he was walking around the copse behind the croquet lawn when he heard…well, he wasn't entirely sure what it was, but it sounded like a woman weeping. It was his firm belief that every living Englishman reacted to this situation in the same way: a rising sense of chivalry, and an acute sense of hopeless helplessness about what to do for best. Clearing the trees he saw that it was Edith.

"My darling girl, what's this?"

"Oh Papa! I…I'm sorry, I didn't see you."

"Now, now, girl, I'm not scolding you. I just want to know what's wrong."

...

Her father had spoken to her gently, almost affectionately, before…just not very often, and certainly not as often as he did to Mary or Sybil. It usually happened when her sisters were happy elsewhere. When it did happen, she had learned to make the most of it.

In answer to Robert's question, Edith held out Anthony's letter.

He took it, opened his mouth in surprise, looked up at her, and then read the epistle right through.

Then he looked up over the fields for a moment.

"Papa?"

"In times of war, people do rash things, things that they might not have done in peacetime. It throws up all kinds of shadows. Your mother mentioned that Sir Anthony might offer for you at the Garden Party, but we've all been so caught up in preparations for the conflict that I assume he was waylaid."

Edith considered her options for a split second, then answered "Yes, Papa, I think he must have."

"You and he have been spending some time together lately. Would you be in agreement?"

"Oh, yes, Papa! I…I love him. I just wish he hadn't gone to France!" she whispered desperately as the tears threatened once again.

"Come now, you can't make a coward of him! If the army needed him, then he did his duty to King and Country by volunteering, and it is greatly to his credit." _And I would do the same like a shot. If only I could._

"You won't withhold your permission, will you Papa?"

"Good heavens, child, why ever would I do that? He's a fine chap, a tad monotonous in his conversation perhaps, but a worthy gentleman. As long as you are happy, Edith."

She ignored the implied slur on Anthony's tendency to talk about his estate, and only his estate, when he was nervous in company.

"I am happy, that's why I'm weeping. Because he may not come back! I don't even know where he is or how I can reply to him accepting!"

Robert thought back to the discussion over dinner.

"He's in the…Intelligence Corps, is that right?" Edith nodded through her sobs. "Mmm. The Intelligence chaps have to keep a lot of their gin under their hats, obviously, but finding a way of getting a letter to Anthony shouldn't be that difficult. After all, he has to keep in touch with his chain of command, no matter where he is or what he's doing, doesn't he?"

Unconsciously, Robert straightened himself.

"Despite everything, I still hold a position in the British Army. I think I shall enjoy pulling rank a bit while making sure we can get word to your fiancé, and he back to you."

"You'd do that? For me? Oh, Papa!" She threw her grateful arms around his neck, much to his satisfaction.

"It's nice to be needed, my darling girl, to have something important to do."

* * *

.

Half an hour later, Robert, in full uniform, was holding the new telephone contraption to his ear (having had a quick, albeit awkward, tutorial from Carson). He had gone through his own regiment to begin with, but had no joy. Very soon, he was losing patience waiting for the Home Secretary to be put on the line. His temper did not improve when the civil servant who had answered his call informed him that Mr McKenna was unable to talk to him and suggested contacting Mr Asquith, the Secretary of State for War. It was doubly unfortunate, therefore, that, after one of the aides at the War Office regretted that Mr Asquith was not in the office and instead pointed Robert in the direction of Anthony's Colonel, CO of the Intelligence Corps, that, instead of the underling that the Earl expected, he was put through to the Colonel directly.

...

The telephone was ringing insistently in the HQ of the Intelligence Corps of the British Army. To be specific, in the larger room outside of the Colonel's cramped cubby-hole he called his office. At this exact moment, the Corps had around sixty members, fifty of whom were in France, five were stationed in the War Office in Whitehall, and four out to lunch. That left the Colonel to answer the phones. He sighed, and answered "Intelligence, Maresfield".

"About ruddy time. Look here, this is the Earl of Grantham, Colonel-in-Chief of the North Riding Volunteers, and I need some information from you."

"Very good, sir. Although I am more likely to supply it if you don't shout at me before I've even spoken" the Colonel replied in an even tone.

"Yes, well, I apologise for that" Robert mumbled, calmly down, "it's just it's taken me the best part of an hour to track you down."

"War Office being their usual helpful selves?" observed the Colonel, dryly. That made Robert bark a bitter laugh.

"You could say that."

"What can I do for you, sir? It must be very important for you to be so relentless in your pursuit."

"It is. It is important, though you may disagree. I need to know how family members can send letters to your officers in the field?"

"Ah, yes. Instructions should have been sent…" he started, but Robert interrupted.

"There was no opportunity for this particular officer to let us know. Please, just tell me the procedure."

The Colonel paused.

"Is your name Crawley?"

"Yes! Why?"

"Then I have to tell you that contacting Major Strallan is going to be possible, but rather long-winded."

"The blazes…! How did you know…?"

"We are the Intelligence Corps, sir. We try to live up to our name."

"The devil you do. Well, what's this long-winded method of communication?"

"If your daughter would care to send her letters, (no packages please), to the Intelligence Corps at the War Office in Whitehall, we will forward them to the pick-up position along with Strallan's orders."

This time Robert didn't ask how the Colonel knew he was asking on behalf of Edith. He just admired the man's omniscience.

"That doesn't sound too long-winded."

"That may take several months, depending on how the conflict pans out. And letters may be received out of order. Or not at all. And I will have to insist that all correspondence is censored, as it will be going out of the army's control and behind enemy lines. Is that understood?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"And for our part we'll do all we can to ensure her letters get through."

"Can I have your name? You've been very helpful. I'd like to compliment you to the Colonel-in-Chief."

"That's very kind of you, sir, but I am the Colonel-in-Chief. One more thing: please tell your daughter that Strallan is a very, _very_ brave man. I gave him the opportunity to stay in London, but he insisted I send him where his skills would do most good. He honours his duty scrupulously. She, and you, can be really rather proud of him."


	6. Chapter 6

**_Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed. It really does make a huge difference to know that out there, in the big, bad world, people I may never meet are getting pleasure from reading my little tales._**

 ** _This chapter deals with the war crimes committed at the beginning of the War._**

* * *

 _._

 _Anthony and a number of other senior intelligence officers would be taken across the Channel and be put ashore somewhere between Dunkirk and Ostend. They would each have different orders and would go their separate ways. Anthony's own mission involved getting to Ghent, Brussels, and then further south if he could, assessing the readiness of the Belgian forces to resist the German advance that was expected any moment, and if the invasion happened to track both armies, report on their numbers and their activities._

In the bright, early morning light, Anthony walked from the coast inland to Veurne, carrying his kitbag. He and his brother officers were aware that the British Expeditionary Force was arriving just over the Belgian border in France. Somewhere ahead of them was the German Army, vastly superior in numbers and very much better equipped. At present, Anthony was standing on territory—quiet, pastoral land—that would soon become battlefields.

There was no one around. It was still very early, even for farmers and shepherds, but there were also signs that people were fearful: windows boarded up, some farms already abandoned.

He continued walking, towards Nieuwpoort and considered it likely, if he made good progress, that he might make Ghent by nightfall.

He wouldn't get that far.

* * *

.

He might not have heard it if the countryside hadn't been so very quiet: a deep noise on the edge of hearing. Constant, but not one single sound…it was many, many sounds merging into one, menacing growl.

 _Thank God it's been an early harvest_ he thought as he buried himself in a haystack a little way from the road even before he could see what was making the unearthly rumble which was quickly growing to thunder. Through the straw he spotted a vast swirl of dust being thrown up from the road about a mile distant, and individual cries began to stand out from the roar. Horses, engines, orders shouted in German, and hundreds of booted feet marching…

Anthony watched the column of the Kaiser's Army pass within twenty feet of him, controlling his nerves by doing his job: noting how many field guns, what kind of artillery, how many men. Details. Numbers. The small observations. It helped him ignore the big conclusion that this Division was much further on than anyone could have expected. If this was repeated with all the other divisions...

He noted, controlling his horror with professional ruthlessness, that some of the soldiers near the back of the column had blood splattered on their uniforms.

He waited half an hour once they had passed before he dared move himself. His strategic priorities had now changed, to say the very least: getting to Ghent would be pointless. He needed to find a way to make his report to HQ. His information would only be of use to Colonel Maresfield and Field Marshal French for a limited amount of time, and it was getting shorter by the second.

He turned and walked fast on towards Nieuwpoort. The nearer he got, the clearer he could see that some of the dust and smoke in the clear, sunny sky had not been kicked up by the soldiers. There were fires spread randomly across the town.

He felt it before he saw any evidence...an atmosphere of...he could only call it _shock_. He had been beginning to suspect that the place was deserted when he turned a corner into the town square and saw a vision of mediæval horror. Some women and children were just standing, stock-still, frozen in grief. Others were sobbing or screaming in their distress, some kneeling over, _what? What are those…oh God they're bodies. How many?_ He counted… _twenty, thirty, forty…And, Christ! not all of them are men._

Anthony stood motionless forcing himself to look around him. The victims had obviously been lined up and shot. Not one of them was in uniform. These were _civilians_. Three days into this conflict and already…

He staggered backwards, grasping at the building he'd just past and retched into the gutter.

"Why?"

Anthony, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, looked up into the red-eyed stare of one of the women.

"Why?" she repeated in Flemish. Anthony could understand the language but not speak it.

In French, he replied "I'm sorry".

"They just came. They forced the men into the square and… Some wives couldn't bear it and wanted to be with their men. The soldiers seemed to be pleased with that. They shot them all anyway. Why? What had we done? What could we have done?"

"Please, don't think like that. This was not your fault. There was nothing you could do."

"I can't stop thinking!" Her voice changed to steel. " _I want justice! I want the world to know what they did here_."

"I will make sure that the world knows. Is there a working telephone anywhere here?"

"They cut a lot of the wires, especially the Town Hall and the Police Station. But you could try the doctor's. It's out of the centre. This way."

* * *

.

"Maresfield, Intelligence" the Colonel answered as usual.

"Colonel, Strallan here. I have urgent news."

"Strallan! What the blazes do you think you're doing ringing on an open line?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but _the German Army has crossed into France_."

Maresfield swallowed, stunned.

"How many?"

"I saw a division of infantry about two thousand strong with twenty field guns, they looked like twelve pounders, and the same number of Maxim guns, and five carriages of ammunition. They passed me between Veurne and Nieuwpoort. At the speed they're going they'll be in Dunkirk tonight if they don't make for Ypres instead. I'm in Nieuwpoort now. They...they've massacred every man in the town, and some of the women; all civilians."

There was silence on the line.

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

"Yes, Strallan, I can hear you. I'm just finding it difficult to believe. How many people?" he asked quietly.

"I counted forty seven bodies."

"Good God!"

"Getting to Ghent is a bit moot now. What are your orders?"

"Follow the bastards. Keep reporting. And keep safe."

"Very good, sir."

"Oh and Strallan? Your fiancée wants to write to you. Where do you think your next pickup will be?"

"I should think Dunkirk, sir. Or at a push Ypres."

"Very well, let's say Ypres if that's less likely to be occupied. Well done, Anthony. Good work."

* * *

.

After he had made his report to Maresfield, he helped the remaining women carry the bodies either to their homes to be washed and laid out, or direct to the graveyard where he began digging graves. Both the undertaker and the priest were among the dead, so Anthony did what he could for the victims and their mourners.

He only allowed himself to think about what Maresfield had told him when he had left Nieuwpoort and bedded down on another haystack on the road back to Veurne.

 _Edith wants to write to me! Oh god, Edith! I thank God that you are safe, at home in Yorkshire. The women I saw today… If I had got to Nieuwpoort two hours earlier, I would have been rounded up and shot…_ _I love you Edith! I want to come home to you. If you still want me. She wouldn't bother if her answer was 'no'. She wouldn't want to break a serving soldier's heart. I'm sure of it. She would just wait for me to be killed. She might want to accept, but it's more likely that she'll say 'ask me again when the war is over'. But it won't be a 'no'. It won't be. It can't be. Please._


	7. Chapter 7

_**Many, many apologies for my absence. I've just been feeling my age.**_

 _ **This is a quick (and short) chapter just to take the story a little further forward, and to prove to you that I'm still alive!**_

* * *

.

For Edith, the next few days were very difficult. Sybil had declared her intention of training to be a nurse. Her parents were against it, of course, and said so forcefully. Cousin Isobel was fully supportive of it and in her practical way had just got on and begun arranging it with Sybil. Cousin Matthew had enlisted and was preparing to leave. He and Mary hadn't spoken since the Garden Party. Granny, Mama, Mary, Cousin Isobel, and Major Clarkson became immersed in the mobilisation of additional supplies and medical staff for the hospital. Edith joined in because she needed something _useful_ to do during the day to take her mind off what might be happening over the Channel. What might be happening to _him_.

At night she crafted letters to Anthony, sending them to him with Colonel Maresfield's help. Papa had relayed to her the Colonel's instructions, and his warnings regarding how reliable, or otherwise, post might be. Robert had also told her Maresfield's glowing praise of Anthony's devotion to duty, and although inwardly she wished... _oh, how she wished!_...that Anthony had taken Maresfield's offer and stayed in London, she also lost herself in her admiration for him; it made her love him all the more. He took the path most useful to his King and country, no matter how difficult or dangerous. It was so like him to offer only his best, despite the cost to himself.

And, she vowed to herself, she would do the same in her own way. She would demonstrate, to Anthony, to her family, and herself, that she too knew her duty, that she was a suitable wife for a war hero.

So she threw herself into the work with the hospital for its own sake, not just because she needed the distraction. By the time Christmas came, and with it the idea of turning Downton into a rehabilitation unit for officers and all the extra work that implied, she had become a lynchpin of the care received by the returning wounded soldiers, and had written a letter to Anthony every week since receiving his letter.

She had received none in return.

* * *

.

"Edith, dear, are you working too hard? You're quite pale." Edith looked up from the cup of tea she was drinking during her break to see her grandmother looking at her with concern.

"There's a war on, Granny. Everyone's working hard."

"Ah."

"What does 'Ah' mean?"

"It is customary to say 'Ah' when one has realised something, my dear. If you insist that you are not working too hard, then you must be _worrying_ too hard instead. Am I right?"

Edith sighed, looked down, and then nodded.

"Still no word?"

Edith shook her head. She didn't think she could trust herself to say anything in answer without losing control of her voice, or her tears.

"But you haven't heard anything from his regiment, or the War Office, have you?" Violet asked.

"No, no, nothing like that."

"Then, like you, my dear, he's probably just very, very busy. Now, what about pouring your poor old Granny a cup of tea, or are you going to keep that whole pot to yourself?"

* * *

.

Winter turned into spring, and then summer. At the end of May there was an appallingly large influx of wounded officers from the Battle of Ypres, many of them suffering from being gassed which had there been used on a large scale in anger for the first time. Edith, Mary, Sybil, and all the nurses were working all hours to help both those men who were recovering, and to provide comfort to those who were not expected to survive. The effects of gas were not well known, and Major Clarkson, working as hard as any of his staff, took down observations and patient interview data constantly to send to the Medical Corps HQ.

Edith was asking the questions Clarkson had decided would be most informative of a Captain one evening. Previously quiet and withdrawn, the Captain had needed to talk that night, and Edith saw an opportunity for gathering data without imposing on a patient.

"How long do you think you inhaled the gas for?" asked Edith, sympathetically.

"Only a few breaths really, two, three, four...but it was enough. It burns your lungs away from the inside. It also tastes utterly foul!"

"What happened then? How did it affect you? I'm sorry to ask you these things, but we really need to know so we can treat other soldiers more successfully."

"I know, my lady. What happened was that I collapsed. I could hardly breathe, I wanted to be sick but not the usual kind. Not to put too fine a point on it my guts wanted to be sicked up. If I had been left there I would have died, no question."

"What saved you?" Edith asked, caught up in the tale.

"There was this man, he was in civvies, he wore a German gas mask but he spoke English. I didn't really see him all that well because the gas blurs your eyes and there was the mask, but he carried me back to the English lines. And I wasn't the only one. He brought five or six of us back, and then he walked back into No Man's Land and no one saw him again. I hope to God he made it. Actually, he put a piece of paper in my uniform and asked me to deliver it. I've only just remembered that...I forgot cos I felt so damn bad. I must be getting better."

"Which pocket?" Edith asked, picking up the man's tunic.

"Can't remember. Just go through them all."

Edith tried three pockets with no success, but in the fourth she found a folded piece of paper. She opened it up, read the address, gasped, and staggered. It was addressed to Colonel Maresfield, Intelligence Corps...in Anthony's hand.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Those of you with a better grasp of the history of these events than me will realise that I have had to 'adjust' some of the times and places of true life incidents on the Belgium/France border in 1914 and 1915. For this I apologise. But all the events mentioned here happened somewhere at some time in that period. One good thing of the WWI Centenary has been the emergence of plenty of resources on the InterWeb which give you a much better and more accurate history, should you be interested.**_

* * *

.

Anthony pushed on to Veurne following the column of the Kaiser's army that he had seen. He came across the aftermath of more atrocities: civilians executed and left where they fell. Talking to the surviving townspeople he learned that the Germans had declared that they had been shot at by civilians, and that this was their retaliation. The civilians claimed that anyone daft enough to shoot at the German Army was daft enough to be in the Civil Defence Force...many of whom used their own weapons (if they had them) and had very little or no uniform since it had been mere days since war had been declared, and thus they could be mistaken for civilians. Anthony did what he could for the victims, as he had in Nieuwpoort. He was no longer surprised by the sight; he'd seen so much already. He was, and always would be, shocked, disgusted, desolate, and haunted. To keep himself sane, he gathered information in a professional manner, found a working telephone and reported back to Maresfield. Then he continued towards Ypres, knowing that he was behind the German lines and in constant danger. He had formed a kind of backstory for himself in case he was interrogated. In it he was a Belgian farm labourer seeking his underage son who had run off to join the Belgian war effort. It was bland, ordinary, non-threatening, and fitted his age.

Thinking about it afterwards, he felt that he should have known that the possibility of the German and Allied armies meeting at Ypres would have been the most probable outcome of them both dashing to secure the ports of north-eastern France. The stalemate was bound to happen somewhere there. What Anthony couldn't have predicted was that the Belgian Army, much weaker than the Kaiser's forces and knowing it, opted to use their own local geography to their advantage instead. They deliberately opened the lock gates at Nieuwpoort, letting the River Yser flood the plain between there and Ypres...including the road Anthony was on.

There was no sound to warn him; it was astounding that such a large amount of water could move so silently. He didn't see the flood approaching him from behind because he was focussed on scanning the horizon ahead for the German Army, and when he wasn't thinking about the data he'd gathered - analysing it, extrapolating from it, preparing his next report to Maresfield - he was thinking about Edith although he tried not to because it was both distressing and a powerful distraction diverting his mind from the job of staying alive.

The water washed past him at ankle level but rising. When he turned, the sight behind him was catastrophic. Every field, every house, everything he had seen in the last day or so, was under several feet of water. He began to run to keep ahead of the deluge as much as he could, but after only a few minutes he was wading through water trying to stay upright, and then finally trudging through mud up to his thighs. It slowed him down, sapped his strength, made him less nimble on his feet, which is how he got caught.

A small party of five German soldiers, tasked with pressing locals into coerced labour, were taking refuge from the water on the stone steps outside a barn when they saw Anthony come round the building. He saw them and ducked behind the stonework, but it was too late. One of them, an Obergefreiter with his ambition firmly fixed upon moving up the ranks, cornered him and marched him back to the German lines at rifle-point.

 _No trouble getting information now_ Anthony thought as he marched with his hands in the air _but how the hell am I going to get reports back to Maresfield?_

* * *

.

It was a miracle really, but no one examined his kit bag. Perhaps there was just too much chaos to think about everything, what with the beginning of the hostilities and the Belgians' defensive flooding. Anthony and around forty other civilians were forced to accompany the column towards the sea, but they were outflanked by a strong Allied force before they could reach Dunkerque. So they used their coerced labour force to building fortifications and trenches around Ypres. These were meant to be temporary. What no one knew was how long this war would last, or how long the offensive around Ypres would last, which was, eventually, more or less the same length of time.

Anthony was forced into digging trenches, hauling munitions, transporting supplies, and anything else the German soldiers didn't have enough time for, or didn't want to do themselves. During the First Battle of Ypres, they discovered that this big, tall, lumbering Belgian peasant with the strange accent had good knowledge and skills for treating wounds. Anthony was assigned as a medical orderly and then, when a few of the German stretcher bearers had been killed, given license to enter No Man's Land by himself to fetch the wounded. This position was a relief to him, as now he was not aiding the war effort of his enemies, and he had a little more liberty to try to establish a way of contacting Maresfield. Yet despite his best attempts, there seemed to be no earthly way he could contact his CO or in fact anyone on the Allied side. He kept a note of any intelligence that might be useful just in case a line of communication opened up. And it eventually did. In the most remarkable way. On Christmas Eve 1914.

A soldier began singing Stille Nacht in the quiet dark of the winter's night. A British voice from over No Man's Land shouted "Give us another song, Fritz!" and he did, joined by another man singing the harmony. Another German voice yelled "Merry Christmas, Tommy!" and was answered in an educated accent by an English officer's "Fröhliche Weihnachten, meine Herren!". A few English voices sang another carol, and followed it with one where rude lyrics replacing the usual ones. Then the French joined in followed by the Belgian lads. By dawn, a few brave chaps from both sides were meeting in No Man's Land to shake hands and exchange Christmas greetings and gifts: little things like tobacco and chocolate. Anthony thought it was the most miraculous and humane thing he'd ever seen. When it looked like the Truce was going to last all Christmas Day, he asked permission to go out and look for the recently killed to bring them back to the lines for burial. The British were doing the same. When his officers granted him permission he went about his business for an hour or so, before he chose a quiet British lad and walked up to him.

"Merry Christmas."

"Lor'! Your English is damn good. Where'd you learn that?"

Anthony looked around to check they weren't being watched or listened to.

"Actually, I am English. I am Major Strallan, Intelligence Corps. I need you to take this report" he drew a packet of grubby papers from his pocket "and give it to your CO. Tell him to send it to Colonel Maresfield. Thank you."

Not wanting to put either the young Corporal, or the Truce, in danger, Anthony nodded his thanks, shook the man's hand, and then continued his search for German bodies.

One of the Padres arranged a joint Drumhead Service in English, German, and French, with the local blokes from Flanders muttering in annoyance at the back and giving the responses in Flemish. Then there was more exchanging of presents. Someone produced a football. Anthony didn't know how to play football (having been to an English public school, and having the physique for it, he played rugby), so he went back to his dugout and scrabbled around urgently to find some more paper. He scribbled a note to Edith more or less writing without thinking, saying what was in his heart, then he went back to the impromptu football field to give it to someone who might be able to send it on. He was lucky to find a Lieutenant standing watching the game, smoking a German cigarette.

"Hello. Merry Christmas."

The officer looked at him, shocked. Anthony continued in a whisper, getting increasingly concerned that he'd chosen the wrong chap.

"I'm in the Intelligence Corps, embedded with The Hun as an enforced labourer, undercover, you know? I've already given one of your chaps my report to send to my Colonel, but, I wonder, could you possibly send this too...to my fiancée? I'd be very grateful."

The Lieutenant looked from Anthony to the letter and back. Slowly, he took it from Anthony's hands.

"You're a bloody sight braver than I am, I can tell you! I'll send your letter. Keep safe, and have a merry Christmas yourself."

* * *

.

As history tells, the Christmas Truce along the Western Front did not last. Senior officers on both sides put a stop to it, sometimes by ordering their artillery to fire into No Man's Land as a warning. The battle restarted almost immediately, although many of those who took part in The Truce deliberately fired to miss the men with whom they had shared songs, soccer, and solidarity. But the artillery continued in its arbitrary slaughter. The next time Anthony went out to No Man's Land to rescue wounded Germans, he came across the Lieutenant who had promised to send his letter on to Edith. Or at least part of him.

* * *

.

Winter was long, bitingly cold, and soul-destroying. Whenever he could find paper he would write several copies of his report to Maresfield and a letter to Edith, but there were never any other opportunities to pass them to the British forces. Both sides were entrenched, the shelling and machine-gun fire relentless, deadly, but futile. Anthony treated as many men suffering from frostbite as he did those suffering from battle wounds.

With the spring, the German commanders decided to go for a big push to break the trench deadlock, aided by this new weapon their boffins had cooked up: a type of gas. Anthony and all the forced Belgian labourers were given a gas mask and told to get on with their jobs. Although Anthony wracked his brains for a way to warn his army about the danger, there was literally no way he could get word to them. The best he could do was to continue writing reports in secret whenever he could, and wait for the offensive to begin.

* * *

.

 ** _Many thanks to everyone still reading, and apologies for the delay. Special thanks to Lady OperaMary who gave me a gentle urging to continue with this story._**


	9. Chapter 9

Edith burst into the library sobbing and trying to speak but not making much sense.

"Edith, what the devil?" asked Robert, turning from the desk where he had been pretending to himself that he'd been working.

"Oh Papa!"

She was waving a dirty, ragged piece of paper as though it was a holy relic. Robert sat her down and gave her his handkerchief, then perched on the Ottoman rubbing her hand and waiting for her to compose herself. Finally, she got the story out.

"You found this in one of the officers' pockets? And you haven't opened it?"

"No, Papa" she sniffed. "I knew it might contain...sensitive information."

"Good girl!"

He stood and crossed to the telephone and put through a call to Maresfield. Edith stood to leave.

"Don't go, Edith. I think you deserve to hear this."

When Robert was connected, he explained what had happened.

"Do you want me to send it on to you, Colonel?"

"Yes, eventually, but I would like it if you could read it out to me now, in case it's something pressing, you know."

Robert put the instrument down while he opened the envelope. He took out the letter and another, smaller note dropped out and fluttered to the floor. Edith stooped to pick it up for him, and found herself staring at her own name written in Anthony's neat handwriting. She looked up as Robert began reading aloud.

"Are you ready? It says…"

 _25th April 1915_

 _Dear Maresfield,_

 _I am still behind the lines at Ypres. Conditions are dreadful, with as many cases of frostbite, trench foot, malnutrition, and disease among the German troops as there are cases of inflicted battle wounds. By the time you receive this (if you do), you will be aware of the use of chlorine gas against our forces. It has significant drawbacks. It cannot be aimed or controlled. It is indiscriminate. It masks the battlefield even more so than artillery smoke and the gasmasks hinder orientation further. There are rumours among the officers that their boffins are working on a more sophisticated version of this hellish weapon. I believe that the attacks will continue all down the line at least as far as Bellewaarde, and will in time lead to another push._

 _The soldiers that advance after a gas attack have been issued instructions not to bother taking prisoners. Instead they have orders to put any poor surviving enemy personnel 'out of their misery' since gas poisoning is such a despicable death._

 _Morale is low. Many German soldiers - officers and men - deplore the use of these chemical weapons and mutter about mutiny, especially after the failure to break through the Allied lines after the last push and the ongoing slog that this one is turning out to be._

 _Please pass the enclosed letter to my fiancée. Thank you._

 _Strallan_

After a pause, Maresfield asked "It's all in plain English? There's nothing in code at all?"

Robert looked at both sides of the paper before replying "No, nothing."

"Hmm. I wonder if his cipher's been taken from him. Never mind. Thank you, my Lord. Do please pass the personal note to your daughter, and send the original letter on to me here."

Robert replaced the receiver and put his arm around his daughter's shoulders.

"Would you like me to stay, or would you prefer to read it in private?"

"In private please, Papa, but I'll come and tell you what he says in a moment."

He kissed the top of her head.

"My brave girl."

The door closed with a quiet click.

Edith stood looking at the paper in her hands for longer than she could afterwards guess. Then she sat and stared at it some more.

Finally, with hands shaking, she found the courage to open it.

 _25th April 1915_

 _My dearest Edith,_

 _So much has happened since I wrote to you last. I know you didn't get the letter I wrote at Christmas, but I hope that the ones I sent at the beginning of February and of March reached you._

 _It has been very cold, but I think we are probably past the worst of it now that the weather is starting to warm a little._

 _Now, my sweet, you must listen to me. If you find someone else who sets your heart fluttering, you must not think twice about me. I want you to be happy, darling girl. If you still wish to explore a future with me once all this horrid business is over, then I shall count myself the luckiest man alive, but I will, I will understand if some more deserving man has won your affections while I am here. Do not waste your youth on waiting for me to return._

 _With all my fondest love,_

 _Anthony_

"Oh Anthony!" she wept.

* * *

.

It took her a little while to recover her equilibrium, but when she had she went to find her father. Silently, she offered him the letter to read, which he did. He turned to her with a small smile playing on his lips.

"It won't be exactly the same, I know, but I have been a serving soldier in the field, just as he is now. As I read this, I believe I know what was going through his mind as he wrote. He is just being an utter gentleman. He genuinely wants you not to feel obligated to wait for him, but nevertheless he hopes you will with all his heart."

She half-sobbed, half-laughed.

"Oh Papa, I hoped you'd say that."

"The situation isn't as clear-cut as it would be if, for instance, you were married, or even if there had been a formal engagement announced before he left to fight. He feels in an awkward position. He doesn't have the rights a husband or fiancé might expect."

She smiled tearfully up at him. "Well, there's nothing I can do about that. Not much more to say or do, is there? I just need to carry on."

* * *

.

And that's what she did. There were more and more soldiers needing care, more and more work to be done. Everyone kept going, working all hours just to stay where they were, just to stem the despair.

There were no more letters from Anthony, and after talking with Maresfield Edith gave up sending letters to him; they just weren't getting through. Instead, she kept writing letters but kept them, ready to send to him or show to him when he finally made his way back. In a way, they helped her more than they ever would him.

There were distractions. A Canadian soldier who had been badly burnt at the front claimed to be Patrick Crawley. Edith wanted to believe him. She was very hurt when everyone else in the family distrusted him, although she understood the mixed feelings that they all shared. But where she tended to allow the man the benefit of the doubt, Papa and Mary especially just doubted. Eventually, the man, whoever he was, left.

Matthew was posted missing, causing Mary heartache, and suddenly the two sisters had a shared grief which drew them together, ironically enough. Sybil, who had qualified as a nurse, seemed to be forming a serious relationship with Branson the chauffeur. Edith sympathised and helped by turning a blind eye to anything she shouldn't have seen, or smiling supportively when she saw the two of them smile at each other. Then Matthew found himself back at Downton and Mary was over the moon once more. To see Sybil and Mary happy in love, whatever struggles might lie ahead of them, made her heart ache. She knew she shouldn't even think it, but she resented the fact that two young men were here in Blighty and safe, when Anthony, who was too old and too experienced to be at the front at all, in her opinion, was behind enemy lines doing his duty by risking his life every single day.

* * *

.

"We just don't have enough drivers, Mama, and there's an end of it."

Mary's voice was sharp, as it almost always was these days, ever since Matthew had returned to his regiment.

"We have to be able to move officers between the hospital and here. It's a question of emergency cases as well as of efficiency" Cora retorted.

"We have Branson, and old Jones from the stables, and his son until he's called up, and that's it. Unless you want Carson to learn how to drive!"

Edith listened but didn't speak. Much better to talk to Major Clarkson directly. If he didn't think it was a good idea then she would abandon it. But if he did, she would be even more determined to learn. In fact she may not tell anyone except Branson. When they found out it would be too late and she would be perfectly justified in continuing as contributing to the war effort even against their wishes.

* * *

.

Robert looked at Edith and Sybil during dinner, some weeks later, while Isobel and Cora had their nightly argument with Violet and Mary. His two younger daughters had matured so much since the beginning of the war. Not "blossomed" as one usually spoke of young girls as they grew in confidence and independence, but stoic. They were now forces to be reckoned with: one quiet and determined and driving ambulances now, and the other outspoken and determined, a senior _qualified_ nurse. There would be many legacies from this war, and a generation that had been denied their youth was one of them. He feared for all his daughters for lots of reasons, most worryingly concerning their marriage prospects. So many promising young men had gone to France and Belgium. As this war dragged on, so many of them had been killed, or posted missing, or been wounded in body or mind. How many healthy men would they, and all the other young ladies, have to choose husbands from when the fighting was over? He wished once again, as he often did, that Matthew and Anthony would have guardian angels looking over them, that they would return to the women who loved them.

But especially Matthew, he realised with a twinge of shame. He knew now what a despairing thing it was to be a peer without an heir...well, without a known heir. If he lost Matthew, he would live the rest of his life out in the knowledge that he would be the last earl of Grantham. He knew that knowledge would eat away at him, skew his attitudes and his decisions. He hoped he was a good man, but he knew that he could be led by his emotions, sometimes foolishly so. What sort of life would he have, what sort of man would he become, if he didn't have that steadying influence of being a custodian for the next earl?

 _Damn this war!_


	10. Chapter 10

Things became so much worse, if that were possible, after Passchendaele. The unit's CO had been killed with so many others. His replacement was a humourless Prussian officer with a fanatical desire to win an Iron Cross. He often led sorties to the enemy lines in that pursuit, which were indeed brave but verging on the foolhardy. In order not to expose his men to unnecessary danger, he put his raiding parties together only from volunteers and the forced Belgian workers.

On one hand this meant that Anthony had more opportunities for handing his reports over to Allied soldiers, if he were careful. On the other hand, his life became significantly more risky. He didn't much rate his chances between the British machine-guns and the danger of being seen delivering intelligence by his German captors. In fact he had begun to think that, perhaps, it was time to return to his own army. The voice inside his head saying that that was cowardice stopped him. He was still providing useful information; he should stay, no matter the danger.

A little further down the line, a new consignment of pistols had gone missing. It was feared that they had been taken by some of the press-ganged locals in preparation for a mutiny. A search of all the workers' personal possessions was ordered. Without any warning or explanation, the officers moved the men out into the trenches while they examined their dugouts, beds, and kit bags.

NCOs were ordered to seize Anthony while the Prussian officer approached him, holding his Intelligence Corps uniform.

"So, you are a spy."

Anthony's face was blank, unreadable.

"No, sir. I found it near the enemy lines. It was in good condition, I thought the cloth would be useful."

"Really." He took Anthony's revolver out of his kit bag. "And this?"

"It was with the uniform, sir. I...I didn't want to be unarmed if the British attacked. Truly, that was the only…"

"And the letters in English?"

Anthony tensed.

"Those letters...are personal. They and the photograph are all I have left of her."

The Prussian chuckled coldly.

"Everything so easily explained. Well, you can tell the court martial your little stories. Take him away."

Of course the court wasn't going to take any chances. Better to execute a worthless, if innocent, Belgian peasant than let a potential spy live.

It was deemed a more effective example to the possible mutineers to cast Anthony into No Man's Land in a German uniform with orders issued to a sniper to shoot him if he attempted to return, than to put him in front of a firing squad which was just too quick. But to make sure, as he climbed out of the trenches and began walking away, the sniper was told to shoot him in the leg. Anthony was then urged with several bullets aimed close behind his feet to drag himself through the mud far enough away so that it was almost certain that he would be finished off by the Allies or bleed to death. Either would do.

* * *

.

"'Ere, Sarge, there's a Bosch walking...well, lurching...towards us!" cried the duty lookout.

The Sergeant gave it a squint over the top of the trench.

"Bleedin' Nora! There is too. Is he waving a white flag or anyfing?"

"No, Sarge."

"Then blow 'is bleedin' 'ead off. God alone knows what 'e's tryna do. He could be stuffed full of grenades!"

The Corporal, who wasn't a sniper, took aim and fired.

The German was spun around by the force of the bullet, and fell.

The Sergeant patted the lookout on the shoulder.

"Well done. Good lad."

* * *

.

Anthony came to that night. There was a screaming pain in his thigh, and an even worse one in his shoulder. He was in No Man's Land, in more senses than one, balanced between life and death. He looked up at the stars. He prayed silently to a God he didn't believe was listening. He so wanted the pain to stop. Perhaps he could try to move...at this distance he'd be seen as a threat and he'd get the English to do what the Germans thought was too merciful...or he could just quietly die here. Immediately, he thought of Edith. _Edith! My wonderful, lovely Edith! I want to live, I want to return to you, my darling! I don't want to die. I want to live for you!_

"Hello?" His voice cracked and broken, hardly above a whisper. "Hello? Can you hear me?" His words were getting stronger with use, with determination. "Hello? Please! Anyone speak English?"

"What d'you want, Fritz? Do you want us to put you out of your misery?" A weary, but not hostile voice.

"No! Please, just listen. I'm not German, I'm English. My name is Major Anthony Strallan, Intelligence Corps. I've been behind German lines collecting information for, well, longer than I can remember, since the beginning of the war anyway. I was discovered yesterday and sent out here to die. All I want is to reach your lines without being shot again. Will you let me do that?"

There were hushed voices. Someone ran off. Then more talking, and a louder, more commanding presence addressed him.

"I'm the CO here. What's your name?"

"Major Sir Anthony Strallan, Intelligence Corps."

"Who's your CO?"

"Colonel Maresfield."

"Tell us something to prove you're English."

He was too far gone to curse at the man's caution and too far gone to think straight. But he tried.

"Um...well, I was born in Yorkshire, at my family's estate. I went to Harrow, then Cambridge…"

"Which college?"

"King's"

"What's the name of the Prince of Wales?"

"Edward, known to friends as David."

"That's good enough for me. I'm going to come over there. Stay absolutely still while we search you. Sergeant, you come with me. Fisher, you stay there and keep your rifle trained on him. If he moves, shoot him."

"Yessir."

The two men approached Anthony, who kept as still as he could.

"My name is Captain Wright."

"Thank you for believing me, Captain" said Anthony.

They rummaged around his uniform and found nothing.

"Can you walk, do you think?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure, Captain."

"Very well. Sergeant, take his good arm. I'll sort of prop you up this side. Once we're back at the trench, we'll call for stretcher-bearers and we'll get you to a field station."

"Thank you both, again."

"Don't thank me, sir, I was the one wot ordered the lookout to shoot you" said the Sergeant.

"You...ah" Anthony grimaced in pain, "you did your duty, Sergeant. I...could've been carrying explosives."

"Well, that's wot I fought, sir. And I didn't have time to find out."

"My apologies, gentlemen, I think I'm going to…"

And Anthony passed out.

* * *

.

When he woke once more it was daylight and he was on a cot. His shoulder was on fire and he couldn't stifle a groan.

"Major? Try to stay still. Your shoulder will hurt until we can get you to the hospital. We've run out of morphine" said a nurse brusquely, and then added "I'm sorry". Even in his current state Anthony could hear that the nurse's impatience was not directed at him, but was born of frustration.

It hurt so much that he could easily have cried. _Why didn't I just let them shoot me_? he thought, _it would all be over by now_. Then thoughts of Edith once again crowded his head and heart...her chestnut eyes, looking up at him with admiration and love on Downton Station...her sweet voice declaring boldly that she loved him...her breathless beauty as she accompanied him to the concert in York. _She won't want a coward. Be brave and prove you deserve her._

He took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Very well, nurse. Thank you."

"Do you feel up to some beef tea?"

Amazingly, Anthony thought that he did. He took some more deep breaths to steady the pain, then the nurse held the cup for him while he drank.

"Thank you, nurse. That was rather good, the best thing I've eaten for nearly three years." Anthony settled down once more, as the nurse smoothed the sheets.

"I think you are the bravest man here" she said, rather more softly. "I wish I could dull the pain for you."

* * *

.

From there he was sent to a bigger field hospital, and then back to England. Everything felt so rushed, and he didn't want to cause more work than was necessary for the doctors and nurses many of whom, he knew, were volunteers and working under enormous strain. But with every passing day, his strength returned a little more, and his need grew, a need so pressing that it was, for him, more important than eating or drinking. So when he was settled into an established military hospital prior to an operation on his shoulder, it was with enormous relief that he asked one of the nurses to write a letter for him.

 _17th May 1918_

 _Dearest Edith,_

 _I am back in England, for good I think. I was wounded about a week ago, but don't worry: I am on the road to recovery. I have to have an operation but then, once I have recuperated, I shall be returning to Locksley._

 _I hope that you have fared well. I expect that you have been snapped up by some dashing young officer by now, and I congratulate him with all my heart if he brings you happiness. You are a treasure that I know I am not alone in appreciating._

 _Nevertheless, if you can bear to meet me, I should be honoured to hear about your experiences in the last few years since we last met._

 _Your_

 _Anthony_

Of course he wanted to ask if she was still single, and if she was, he would beg her to marry him! Of course he wanted to tell her that only the thought of her kept him alive in the night mud of No Man's Land with bullets in his leg and shoulder.

But the gentleman in him couldn't do it. He could not presume. He would reopen their friendship gently, so that when she had to tell him that she was engaged or married to someone else she could also do so gently


	11. Chapter 11

Edith clutched the letter to her heart as she sobbed. He was safe! Wounded but safe. Nothing else mattered. Robert got up from the breakfast table to hug her, followed by Sybil who was beside herself with joy, and even Mary looked relieved for her.

Mama got up much earlier than usual in order to share Edith's joy.

"Oh, my darling! I'm so happy. Thank God he's back. You must say if you need time to visit him."

Later, on her way out to the Dower House to tell Granny, Carson and Mrs Hughes offered the heartiest good wishes of all the staff, although Mrs Hughes looked decidedly more pleased for her. Carson, as usual, kept his demeanour reserved although she saw a small paternal smile play around his eyes.

Granny, too, was over the moon.

"Oh thank heavens! Where is he?"

"Some military hospital in London." She looked at the letterhead once again. "It's called the Charterhouse Hospital."

"I see" said Violet, abruptly sombre. "Does he mention the nature of his wounds?"

"No. Why? What is it? What's the matter, Granny? What do you know about the Charterhouse?" she asked, panic clear in her voice.

"My dear, we mustn't jump to conclusions. Casualties are being treated wherever there is room for them" the Dowager said with deliberate calm as she sat them both down, holding Edith's hands in her own. "But the Charterhouse has been primarily a hospital for officers...who have lost limbs."

Involuntarily, Edith's hand covered her mouth as she stifled a cry.

"Oh, poor Anthony!"

"It may not be that. If it isn't, it'll be a relief. But if it is, you would do well to prepare yourself."

Edith took a deep breath.

"Yes. Yes, you're right, Granny. He does talk about an operation in his letter."

"And you should also think very seriously about whether you would be able to be a wife to a limbless man…" Edith went to object. "...I mean, on a practical as well as an emotional basis. Could you cope with the sores that these prosthetics cause? Cutting up his food for him? Not being able to dance with him at balls? Could you deal with his jealousy if you danced with someone else? Or his self-hatred because he can no longer do things he used to do, and used to do well? These and other requirements...and sacrifices? For years and years, decades perhaps. I don't say you couldn't, Edith. I just say that it would be only fair to Anthony to tell him now if you found on reflection that you couldn't."

Edith thought for moment.

"Yes, you're right, Granny. I'd like to go down to London to see him, if Dr Clarkson can spare me. Mama's happy for me to go."

"No, no, my dear, I don't think that's wise. If the operation is...what we fear it is...then he won't want you to see him until he is as recovered as he's going to be. Give him his pride, Edith. Write to him as enthusiastically as you want, and invite him here, if that's what you want to do, but give him time to come to terms with what's happened to him and to prepare himself as well as he is able."

* * *

.

As she walked back from the Dower House, Edith wondered whether there were any officers at Downton she could consult. What Granny had told her rang true, but she wanted to hear it corroborated by men who might understand Anthony's position rather more first-hand...if she could do so without upsetting them.

A couple of the officers she asked said that, if they were Anthony, they would want to see her as soon as possible, but most of them, including those she considered the most thoughtful and sensible men there, agreed with Violet.

So that evening, after her shift, she answered Anthony's letter.

* * *

.

"Letter for you, Major."

Anthony was still groggy from the ether and the morphine and, most of all, the surgeons' news, but all his nerves tingled with excitement in case the letter the nurse held was from Edith.

He expressed his thanks, and held the small envelope in his left hand. How the devil was he going to open it? He'd not really thought about the everyday losses. Driving, riding, writing...he was still mourning those larger, more important skills, but he hadn't really had time yet to process how he was going to manage ordinary tasks.

However, the nurse was experienced and returned with a letter knife. She sliced the top for him, extracted the paper within and handed it to him with a smile, and then gave him privacy.

 _19th May 1918_

 _My dearest Anthony,_

 _I am overjoyed by the news that you are back in England and safe from the fighting. I know that you will have done your duty to the utmost of your ability. So you deserve to be looked after now you are wounded._

 _I do hope that you are not in any pain, but that is my only concern: I give thanks that you have returned alive, and nothing else matters to me._

 _You ask what has been happening in Downton in the last four years. We turned the house over to the Royal Medical Corps as a convalescent home for officers. My sister, Sybil, actually trained as a nurse. Mary, my other sister, and I have worked as auxiliaries helping the soldiers as best we can with anything else: writing letters, assisting them learning to walk with crutches, and just listening to their stories when they wanted to talk. I know I'm not alone, but I have had to grow up quickly to be robust enough to be able to provide reliable help. Neither Sybil, nor Mary, nor I have married or become engaged._

 _If you would like it, I might be able to request a transfer for you here at an appropriate time after your operation. It would be wonderful to have time just to be together once again after so long. But you may already have been offered something more suitable. Either way I am longing to see you, and will hurry to visit you whenever you can think about receiving visitors._

 _All my love,_

 _Edith_

 _._

It was everything he could have wished for. The darling girl had confirmed that she was still single in the most discreet and socially acceptable manner. Reading between the lines, he also heard her saying _I've nursed wounded soldiers. I'm not an impressionable, shockable young girl anymore. I understand the realities of war. Whatever your wounds, I can cope._

Interpreting it even further he saw...and he was not imagining it...that she was declaring that her feelings for him had not changed. She wanted to have him at Downton so she could nurse him and be with him. She was willing to visit him, if that would be acceptable to him. He was sure that she stopped short of actually saying 'I love you' simply because she didn't know how that might affect him in his current condition.

Happiness was waiting for him in Yorkshire.

So why did he just want to run away...from everything and everyone?

* * *

.

 _22nd May 1918_

 _My darling Edith,_

 _I cannot tell you how much happiness your letter brought me. Nevertheless, I owe you an explanation as to my situation._

 _Among other wounds which are, thankfully, healing well and will not be long lasting, I took a bullet in the wrong place in my shoulder. Although the surgeons tried to save its motion and feeling, there was nothing that could be done. The upshot is that, though I didn't lose it, I'll never have the use of it again. I am still recovering from the operation; another two to three weeks should see me well enough to travel once more. Between the bullet wound and the surgical incisions, the scars I bear will be severe._

 _I realise that this news will have a significant influence on how you view the future. Let me assure you that I shall understand your misgivings, whatever your decision. It has taken considerable courage to compose this letter to you, and, I expect, a similar level of bravery to read it, but you have a right to know the truth._

 _If your offer of requesting a transfer from here to Downton for convalescence in a couple of weeks still stands, I would be very grateful for it and welcome it warmly. If you would prefer me to be sent to another facility, I shall totally understand and accept your decision._

 _Your_

 _Anthony_

* * *

.

"Well" declared Dr Clarkson as he placed the letter on the desk between them. He regarded Edith appraisingly for some quiet moments. Edith had become accustomed to the doctor's wise habit of thinking hard before speaking, so she waited patiently, her eyes falling to the files in front of him. They bore Anthony's name, and large, red-inked letters screaming _SECRET_. When Clarkson eventually spoke, it was not what she had expected.

"My opinion is that Downton is not the most appropriate place for Sir Anthony...sorry, _Major Strallan_...to recuperate."

"Whyever not? We're the nearest facility to Locksley! He doesn't need specialist care..."

"That's where I fear you are wrong, Lady Edith. If he were merely recovering from surgery, and there were no prior...emotional connection between the two of you, I would agree that Downton would be best. But the two of you are, to all intents and purposes, engaged to be married, although the lack of clarity concerning that arrangement in itself would make me think twice about accepting him. But..." he paused and went on more quietly, "Major Strallan spent three and a half years living by his wits, witnessing some of the worst atrocities that have been committed. Even the manner of his being wounded was...hellish." He glanced down at the file and his eyes took on a haunted look. "And there was more, much more, that I cannot discuss with you. Even the most stoic man does not recover from that easily."

"What are you saying? I don't understand what you're saying."

 _Please don't say what I think you're going to say._

Dr Clarkson sighed.

"I just think that having the woman he loves on the nursing staff to witness his suffering will not help him recover. And it may not lead to happiness in the long run for either of you. I'm recommending that he's transferred to Harrogate."

He put his hand up when she went to argue.

"Please, Lady Edith, believe that I am making this decision in your best interests as well as Major Strallan's. And now I'm afraid I really must be getting on. There really is no rest for any of us these days."

Edith watched the doctor's retreating back as he began thinking about another case. _Did he really think that Anthony...? Was it likely that someone so solid might...?_

Of course, she had seen enough in the last three and a half years to understand that too much exposure to traumatic events could lead to... _it_...but Anthony was so stable, so grounded...surely the Intelligence Corps wouldn't recruit someone if they had a tendency to...fall apart, let alone promote him to Major and send him on important, sensitive missions?

Still, if he were at Harrogate, she could visit him more easily. She went into the office to look up exactly where the hospital was in the town. The directory was easily found. She found the page without trouble. She stopped breathing as she read:

 _Harrogate Spa Hospital for Officers, Royal Crescent, Harrogate, North Yorkshire. 71 beds. Specialist unit for neurological cases._

* * *

 _ **Thank you all so much for continuing to read and review. I am horribly behind with my thanks to people who've been kind enough to review, but please know that I appreciate every single one.**_

 _ **Look, this is awkward but the official Downton channel on YouTube have put up a video of Anthony and Edith's story called "The Continued Misery of Lady Edith". The comments are, at the time of writing this (6/6/2019), all anti-Anthony. If you feel half as strongly as I do that Anthony was a) clumsily written by JF, and b) suffering from shell shock in S3 (and possibly a c) of your own opinions), then could I ask you to write a comment and perhaps together we can present a more balanced view of a much loved, but also much abused, character. Thank you.**_


	12. Chapter 12

"You really should try to eat something, Major. You'll never recover if you don't feed yourself."

The nurse picked up the full, cold tray with concerned annoyance.

"I'm sorry Nurse Thwaite. I just don't have any appetite."

"I shall have to tell the doctor. He needs to know. And it's not you who has to endure the scorn of the cook!"

"I'm terribly sorry to cause inconvenience…." he started, but his heart wasn't really in it, and the nurse noticed. Being of stout, Yorkshire stock she said what she thought.

The woman came nearer to the man sitting in an armchair staring out of the window, his right arm in a sling.

"I know _you_ don't want to get better and go home, but unless you do some other poor soldier will be denied the care we could give him in this bed. Think on't!"

She bustled out of the room.

Anthony watched her go, and dissolved into tears.

.

He'd been transferred to Harrogate.

Harrogate.

Not Downton.

She didn't want him.

 _She didn't want him._

He had gallantly stated that he would understand, and indeed he did. Understanding wasn't the problem.

He was supposed to be gaining the strength to return to Locksley, to go back to the life he'd had before the war, to be the Lord of the Manor and have dozens of people rely on him for their livelihoods and employment...for their very lives...for their present, and their children's future, and the future of generations after that. They all relied on him.

For three and a half years whole regiments had relied on him for _their_ very lives, and again and again he had failed them, either by not discovering the information that would have saved them, or by not being able to get that information to the appropriate military authorities in time. He'd had to watch while brave, young men were gassed, or shot full of bullets, or blown to pieces when he could have stopped it. How could he bear it? The past or the future? So many men and women and children. He couldn't shirk his responsibilities and his duty, he just couldn't. But he was a failure. He couldn't even get himself executed properly, for God's sake!

So _of course_ Lady Edith wouldn't want him. She deserved better...even if she still cared for him he would ruin her life.

But he loved her so...she was the only person he lived for...and she didn't want him...he was no use to anyone...so what was the point of living?

* * *

.

"Nurse Thwaite tells me you're not eating" stated the doctor several days later. "That's probably to be expected. I don't suppose you ate much after your operation, and before that...well, I dread to think what your normal diet was with the German army. I expect that you didn't even receive the rations their ranks got, just their leftovers." Anthony didn't respond since the doctor hadn't asked a question, and everything he had said was true. He just continued looking at him passively.

"Tell me, what's your best recipe for grilled rat?"

At least the patient had broken into a weak smile and a short, unhappy laugh.

"Seriously, would you cope with some soup better than solid food, just until you're used to it again?"

The patient was silent.

"Please."

"I'll...I'll try."

"Thank you. Now, tell me how you are planning on doing it?" asked the doctor, suddenly commanding and straightforward.

"What?" Anthony leaned away, suspicious and guilty.

"How are you planning on killing yourself?"

Anthony looked at him with pure fear in his eyes.

"Don't worry, Major. I'm not a mind-reader or supernatural in any way...alas!...or I could empty this hospital in five minutes. Every soldier here has thought about ending his life. That's why you are all here, so we can help you. So how are you going to do it? Were you hoping that we'd let you starve yourself to death?"

"It would cause less disgrace...and less mess."

"Not to us, it wouldn't!" the doctor scoffed. "Can you imagine what the War Office would have to say about it? No, please don't do that. I suppose you could throw yourself out of the window, but we're only on the first floor. You'd probably just lose the use of your other arm and be completely helpless. That wouldn't help, would it? Nurse Thwaite would have to force feed you and wouldn't _that_ please her?! You couldn't hang yourself without help, not with one arm. Even cutting your own throat with a razor might be a bit of a struggle."

Anthony stayed stony still and silent. He felt the icy chill creeping up his spine and the tremors begin.

"So why haven't you tried to do it yet, Major? You've been here a week, plenty of time to…"

"Sod off, you bastard!" he blurted, though it came out unbidden in German. He dragged himself back to English and muttered "Leave me alone."

"You want to be left alone?"

"Yes!"

"Until when?"

"What?!"

"Until when do you want us to leave you alone? A week? A year? Until you top yourself? I'm a doctor. I try to save lives. I don't abandon people to their demons."

"What if I am a demon?" Anthony spat.

"What makes you think you're a demon?" retorted the doctor.

Once again Anthony didn't answer.

"Major, you were behind enemy lines for over three years. You, alone, of all the men I've treated, saw events from their, the enemy's, viewpoint. You witnessed the most sickening displays of cruelty, and a slaughter of both innocent civilians and combatants on a scale never before seen in human history. But _witness_ does not mean _responsibility_."

Anthony's eyes creased wetly.

"For an ordinary soldier, perhaps not. _But I was_ _an Intelligence Officer!_ It was my job to uncover their plans and get that knowledge back to base quickly enough for those plans to be thwarted, or at least prepared for. Too often I failed in my duty. You must have had patients here who were gassed, yes? I knew about it...before Ypres...before it had ever been used in battle...I knew the Germans had this weapon... _and I couldn't find a way to warn them, my own army! They died...in agony...in their hundreds...because I was a bloody failure!_ "

The doctor let him cry for some time.

"Was there really any conceivable way that you could've got word back to our army?" he asked.

"I could've damned well just walked over and got it to them!"

"But how did that work out for you, when you were actually forced to do it, mmm? Shot twice and almost bled to death. You only survived through pure luck and because it was night and Fritz couldn't see you being taken into the Allied trenches. It really wouldn't have helped all those young men if your information had been blown to smithereens along with you trying to get it back to HQ at any cost. You couldn't contact your chain of command by telephone. That would have ended up with you in a court martial years earlier than you actually did. Pigeons? Ditto, and you and your Belgian workmates would've eaten them long before then anyway. What do you think you could have done, exactly? Folded your report into a paper plane and glided it over No Man's Land?"

"I don't know! But I should have worked something out!" screamed Anthony.

"Why? Why, Major? Why should you have to be superhuman? Why did you have to be able to achieve what no one, _no one_ else could have managed? Not only then, but all the other times that your sense of duty is accusing you of. I have read your record. You did an enormous amount for the war effort. You achieved astounding things. As an impartial, logical, scientific onlooker, I can categorically tell you: _it wasn't your fault_."

"It feels like it was" Anthony whispered back.

"And that purely goes to show that, despite all you've been through, you are still a compassionate human being. And if that isn't superhuman, I don't know what is."

* * *

.

 _She went into the office to look up exactly where the hospital was in the town. The directory was easily found. She found the page without trouble. She stopped breathing as she read:_

Harrogate Spa Hospital for Officers, Royal Crescent, Harrogate, North Yorkshire. 71 beds. Specialist unit for neurological cases.

Edith was stunned for a moment. Then her brain shouted at her: _they're not telling you everything._

She walked smartly back to Major Clarkson's office. She strode purposefully up to his desk. She gathered up all the files with Anthony's name on them. Then she sat down and began to read.

* * *

.

 _ **A/N: Apologies for the disappearing act. As some of you will have gathered already, both my PC and my iPad died at the same time, which was a jolly blasted nuisance. But even more so since it happened at a time when, about 30 years since I was last asked to do it, I was invited to conduct once again. It's given me a taste of baton-and-podium sport once again and I'm beginning to think of a way of answering Lady SpottedHorse's challenge to me to write a story set in the music world.**_

 _ **Anyhow, although this is not a long chapter, I hope it gives you a taste of where things are going to go next.**_


	13. Chapter 13

Anthony had to give Dr Weaver praise where praise was due: he must have done quite considerable amounts of research in between their sessions (or at least given orders to someone else to!). For each day he came to Anthony to talk about the major's recollections of his three and a half years service behind enemy lines, and every day, at the point when Anthony was at his most self-accusing, Dr Weaver would present him with the file of some soldier or other insisting that they read the record together. He confronted Anthony with concrete evidence of Private This or Lieutenant That who had been rescued along with all their company or regiment _solely_ because of information gathered and communicated by Anthony's skilled intelligence work. Weaver took the official documents and, using the same sorts of techniques that Anthony himself had used countless times, drew a timeline that demonstrated that it was purely Anthony's astute work and bravery that saved their lives.

At the end of a session about a fortnight after Dr Weaver had begun his therapy, he slipped Anthony a piece of paper. On it was written a number. Anthony looked up at the doctor, blank but politely enquiring.

"I've been keeping a tally. Just with those cases we've examined in the last seven days, that's the total number of lives you saved, not regiments, not units, but actual men; each and every one is a father, a husband, a son. As Nurse Thwaite would no doubt say _Think on't."_

The doctor left to visit another patient, and Anthony looked again at the paper in his left hand.

8,647

The tears threatened again, but even he could recognise the difference between tears caused by desperation and shattered nerves, and those borne of humility and gladness.

* * *

.

Edith sat down and read the files marked SECRET, and then read them all again. After the third reading, she placed them all back on Dr Clarkson's desk and left, closing the door behind her. She returned to her duties and kept her immediate thoughts very firmly in check and concentrated on the task in hand. There would be time to muse on what she had learned later on in the evening, when she came off duty.

* * *

.

Dr Weaver had noticed in the last few sessions that Major Strallan was definitely emerging from Patient 27 (shell-shock case, transferred from Charterhouse Military Hospital, London). His softly-spoken command and razor-sharp analysis were coming to the fore. The man had actually contradicted Nurse Thwaite and quietly insisted that he was brought some rice pudding much to Nurse Thwaite's shock (and then much to her pleasure, her smiles hidden behind her hand,). Dr Weaver had no doubt that Sir Anthony Strallan, complete with polished manners, razor-sharp wit, and a kindly concern for tenants and neighbouring gentry and everyone in between would in turn emerge from Major Strallan just as successfully, given time. In his professional view, it would not be untoward to put in a request for Major Strallan to be transferred to somewhere closer to his home at Locksley in the not too distant future. It would take some time for the request to work its way through the system. He remembered that there had been a letter from one Major Dr Clarkson who had been Major Strallan's own doctor before the war. It would be in his file. He began to write a letter to Major Clarkson.

* * *

.

Edith's mind went over the facts again and again and again. Knowing that she wouldn't sleep that night without doing _something_ , she rose and crossed her bedroom over to the small table that served as her desk. She pulled out some paper and began to write a letter to Major Strallan. She worked at it for half an hour, read the letter back to herself, shook her head, scrumpled the paper and threw it into the waste-paper basket, and started again. After another half-hour she read what she'd written this time and scowled, but it had some merits. She placed it to one side and began again.

Around four o'clock she heard the first early songbirds and put down her pen. Daylight was just creeping into her window. She yawned, and shivered with previously unnoticed cold. As she made her way back to bed for another couple of hours sleep before she had to start the day, she acknowledged to herself that she hadn't made much progress, but she had made a start.

.

It took her several days to reach a point where she felt that she had said all she wanted to say, without using any words or phrases that might be uncomfortable for Anthony to read. She sent the letter off to Harrogate...and immediately started another letter.

* * *

.

When the first letter had arrived, Dr Weaver was in two minds about whether to pass it on to Strallan immediately. He felt it would be better to wait until the Major had had time to heal a little bit more and was feeling stronger. Weaver kept the letter, and another from London...Strallan's sister, perhaps?...for a week, and then allowed them to be passed into Strallan's hands. The doctor rather expected his patient to mention his post in their next session, but Anthony made no reference to either missive.

When the second letter addressed in that feminine hand arrived, Weaver gave permission for it to be delivered without hindrance. Again, Strallan was quiet about it.

But when the third letter came, Weaver decided to take it with him when he went to Anthony's room for their therapy, and to deliver it personally.

"Letter for you, Major." He passed it over with nonchalance, but watching Anthony's reaction carefully.

Anthony frowned sadly for a moment and then took the paper, nodding his thanks. He placed it to one side.

"Aren't you going to read it?" asked Weaver.

"I'll read it after our session, doctor. I know you're very busy."

"Don't mind me. I have a bit of catching up to do on your paperwork. Go ahead."

"I...I would prefer to be alone when I read it, thank you all the same" Anthony replied a little too 'normally'.

"Why don't you read them, Anthony? I know they are from your fiancée."

Anthony's pain was very plain. He struggled for words for a moment, but he wasn't surprised by the doctor's prescience at drawing conclusions from data. He'd discovered weeks previously that Weaver would have made an excellent Intelligence Officer.

"Because...because I..." he stammered, and then stopped.

"Because you fear that she has broken it off."

"She offered to get me transferred to Downton for my convalescence. I wanted to accept, but I felt I had to tell her that I'd lost the use of my arm and would have nasty scars. The next thing I knew, I was sent here!" He sighed. "I'm glad, really. I'm too old for her. It's better this way."

Within the space of a few minutes, Weaver had seen almost all his good work ripped apart. Patient 27 with the severe case of Shell-shock sat before him once more, and Major Strallan was nowhere to be seen. This was going to be a great test of his therapeutic skills.

"If I were to read these letters of hers and tell you what she says, would that help?"

Anthony tensed.

"I really rather you didn't."

"You act as though you know her decision, but in reality you are afraid to know for sure."

"I think that's probably true. You see, I am a coward after all."

"I've known very brave warriors who went to bits when confronted by their wives, so I don't think we can use that as a reliable measure!"

He smiled gently at Anthony.

"Here's another offer: I promise to read the letters tomorrow...or take them away and burn them unopened. But the choice need only be made tomorrow. Deal?"

Anthony's indecision was painful, but he finally nodded his assent.

"Right. I think we'll leave it at that, Major. Quite enough trauma for one day."

The doctor waved a hand in a casual parting salute and turned down the corridor, a gentle, expectant smile playing on his lips.

* * *

.

After dinner, when he was sure that he would not be disturbed, Anthony retrieved the first two letters from the bottom of the drawer where he had stashed them and put them with the third. They were each inscribed in a neat, womanly hand, and in that light blue ink that Edith favoured. Unknowingly, he took several deep breaths. Then he steadied the first letter on his knee and eased a fingertip inside the flap. With perseverance he tore it open. Again he paused and regarded the unsealed letter. He swallowed thickly and pulled the letter from its cover. It took him another moment or two to compose himself and unfold the paper.

 _3rd June 1918_

 _My dearest darling Anthony,_

 _I owe you an explanation as to why you are in Harrogate now, and not here at Downton as I offered. The decision was taken out of my hands; indeed it was never really mine to make. Doctor Clarkson, who has read your military record, believes that you will need the specialist care that Harrogate can offer and simultaneously thinks that having too much contact with me during your recovery will be undesirable for us both, perhaps irretrievably so._

 _So much for the official explanation._

 _I will confide in you something I have not told anyone else: I have also read your service record (without Major Clarkson's knowledge, of course). No one should have had to endure what you have so bravely borne. Though I loved you dearly before, I am in awe of your courage and the astoundingly incredible acts of quick-thinking, intelligence, strategy, and bravery that you carried out during those three and a half years behind enemy lines._

 _I know you to be a gentleman of the highest order, and that you would never renege on your word in any undertaking, particularly in the question of a marriage proposal, but truly I do not feel worthy to marry a hero like you. I want to say it clearly: if you now regard me in a less romantic light than you did in 1914, I shall not consider it to be dishonourable. I shall see it plainly as the truth that it is. But if, please God, you do still wish us to be married, I shall count myself one of the luckiest women on earth, because I love you so._

 _I long to see you once more. Harrogate is a lot nearer to Downton than London. I will presume once more upon your gallantry and ask that you write to me soon as to whether you wish to see me in the future, and don't let me worry for any longer than necessary which future I have to look forward to._

 _All my love,_

 _Edith_

* * *

.

 _ **Please accept my apologies for the delay in posting. Since the last chapter was published I have, ahem, celebrated my 80th birthday.**_


	14. Chapter 14

When Dr Weaver called by the next day, he smiled in satisfaction that Anthony had opened a letter, just as he had expected. His ultimatum had been designed to bring about a motive for action, after all. What surprised him was that only one of the three letters in that hand had been read.

"Good morning, Major."

Anthony looked up at him with red eyes and a look that Weaver had seen before. He sat down opposite his patient with concern.

"Tell me" he said, dropping any pretences or stratagems and relying on that good, old-fashioned treatment: listening.

Anthony merely passed the letter over to him mutely.

Once he'd read it, the doctor sighed.

"Your lady had a great deal of understanding and empathy for your position, it seems."

"She isn't 'my lady' " Anthony responded wearily. "Look at the date. Almost a month ago. And she's written two more letters since then. God knows what she thinks about not receiving an answer."

"If she didn't change her mind when you were on the continent for three and a half years and didn't know whether you were alive or dead, why do you think she will have changed her mind within the last month while you've been here safe and sound?"

"It isn't that, not really."

The doctor waited silent and patient.

"The woman thinks I'm a hero! How can I tie her to me under such...such misapprehensions? She'd just grow to be disappointed, and that's no basis for a marriage."

Weaver leaned back.

"So we're back to this old chestnut again. You are a hero; I can assure you of that, no matter what you think. We've established it. Ask Corporal Hurst whose regiment was in an advantageous position when the Bosch attacked them because of your intelligence, and so lived to marry his sweetheart. Or Captain Bradley whose entire unit would've been wiped out if your information hadn't warned them of that tank and gas attack. Or..."

"Oh, for God's sake, man! When will you realise that none of that _feels_ as though _I_ deserve any credit for it?!"

There was silence. Anthony stared blindly out of the window.

"Very well" said Weaver quietly. "Forgive me. I'll stick to the point. Let me describe the problem as it seems to me, and you tell me if I've got it right. You think you don't deserve happiness, that you don't deserve to marry this young woman, and the fact that she thinks your actions were brave and unselfishly heroic just makes that feeling worse. Would that be accurate?"

"Yes, I suppose" Anthony admitted.

"What would make you feel that you _did_ deserve her?"

"Being someone else" Anthony muttered.

"Mmm. The problem can't be that she doesn't love you. She's waited all this time, and declares her feelings in her letter. Is it that you find _you_ don't love _her_ now?"

"No!" Anthony wailed. "The thought of her was the only thing that kept me alive in No Man's Land. But..."

"Yes?"

"She should have someone young and whole. She deserves that" Anthony stated firmly. Weaver had the feeling he'd come up against a door which he had opened with care and patience over weeks of careful work, and which, in only a few days, had been abruptly slammed shut.

"Very well. I can see that you've made up your mind. I'll not try to change your view. But perhaps we should look at the practicalities? Are you going to tell her your decision?"

"I...I should, yes."

"In that case, I would suggest reading the other two letters, just to be sure you aren't insulting her."

"You're right. I should."

Appealing to the man's sense of honour seemed like cheating. He had learned that it was the most sure-fire way to get Strallan to do anything. Still, needs must.

"Would you like me to read them to you?"

"No! No" Anthony replied quickly. "But if you could open them, that would be very kind. Thank you."

"I'll return in half an hour...to see how you're getting on and if you'd like someone to take dictation."

"Thank you, doctor" Anthony murmured, distracted.

Anthony looked down at the second letter and thought _It can't be any worse than the first_.

He opened it.

 _16_ _th_ _June 1918_

 _Dearest Anthony,_

 _I am so sorry if anything I wrote in my last letter inadvertently upset you. I have no information about your condition, or what treatment you are receiving. Indeed, I feel lost and frustrated, as if my position has not changed since you were captured behind enemy lines. I fear that in my ignorance I may have touched a nerve and offended you, and that's the last thing I would ever want to do. What I_ do _want to do, is to assist. Not because you are helpless, you would never be that. But_ I _feel helpless not being able to reach you, and I will confess that it is making me unhappy. Even if I cannot_ help, _I want to see you. I want to be with you, my darling._

 _I would dearly love to visit you in Harrogate, or in Locksley when you are well enough to return home. I would like to continue from where the summons to London in August 1914 interrupted us, even though I realise that many things have changed, with me as much as with you._

 _With all my love,_

 _Edith_

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _4_ _th_ _August 1918_

 _My darling Anthony,_

 _It is nearly four years since I last saw you. Though the separation has grieved me, I would willingly wait another four years, and another after that, as long as I could see you again. I miss my dearest friend. I miss my fiancé. I do hope that whatever therapy they are providing in Harrogate is effective and healing to you._

 _Papa and some of his army colleagues are beginning to talk of the end of the war. They say that the German army are weakened and unable to meet the challenge of the Allies especially now that the Americans have entered the war against them. It is common knowledge that some of the German infrastructure has been fractured and though they can cope now while summer remains, when winter arrives their army will either starve or surrender; there can be no other way._

 _If this comes to pass, then all that you fought for, everything you sacrificed, will not have been in vain._

 _I wish I could discuss it with you personally. You always talked to me as though you saw me as an equal. No one valued me just for being me except you, and although I have worked hard in the last four years and earned the respect of the officers, it is still the case that no one in my family thinks twice about me. I long to be with you once more, but I shall be patient and wait for you to be really healed and healthy. No matter how long that takes, I will wait._

 _Your_

 _Edith_

 _._

When Weaver returned to Anthony's room, he found the major sobbing his heart out.

"Anthony? What's the matter?"

"She...Edith...she...she says she will wait for me...until I'm well again! But I never will be well again, will I? I'm fated to disappoint her."

"It's my professional opinion that you will recover inasmuch as you will conquer and control the shell shock."

"But the arm! What woman would look twice at a man with no right arm to speak of?"

Weaver leaned forward and spoke very slowly and deliberately.

"Lady Hamilton for one." He watched Anthony as his grief faltered and his face froze.

" _What?_ "

"Did you know that Nelson had lost his right arm before he met Lady Hamilton? I believe your Lady Edith might be, like Emma Hamilton, one of those women who instinctively look past such things, preferring to admire the heart and soul behind them."

As the doctor gave Anthony time, and watched him struggling to reconcile the well-known history of a beautiful woman's passionate love for a military hero who had lost his arm in battle with his own situation, he thought _What an idiot I am! Why didn't I think of this before? Strallan's an Intelligence Officer. He respects facts! An historical example holds much more sway with him than all my pleadings!_

Anthony's whole demeanour was in the process of changing, but he managed to look up at Weaver sheepishly.

"I've been a god-awful fool, haven't I? Wallowing in self-pity for weeks. Nelson wouldn't have done that!"

"You've been ill, major. There's no need to blame yourself. Try to take a rest now, all right? We can make more plans later on this afternoon."

He got up to go, but turned back once he'd reached the door.

"You read three letters, yes?"

Anthony nodded.

"There was another one, wasn't there? Was it from your sister?"

"I didn't open that one either" Anthony admitted, but feeling a bit stronger he fetched it from the night stand and handed it to Weaver to open.

"Read it, by all means. It's not Edith's hand."

Anthony watched the doctor's face, but he gave no hint as to what he was reading. Finally, he looked at Strallan and said "It appears that your Colonel agrees with me and Lady Edith. You've been awarded a DSO."

* * *

.

 ** _Thank you to everyone who sent me birthday wishes, especially to the anonymous Guests whom I couldn't thank personally._**

 ** _Dr Weaver is based on my lovely Baroness, who is a professional counsellor. With pride I acknowledge that I consulted her on an appropriate treatment for Anthony._**


	15. Chapter 15

Edith waited. She had promised she would; even despite the promise, her feelings left her no other possible course of action open to her.

She waited.

And waited.

Until September. Then she rang the Harrogate Hospital and asked if Anthony was still there as a patient. Did she have the address correctly? Had the letters arrived and been passed onto him safely? On receiving assurances on all scores, she found herself even more uneasy. If wasn't like Anthony not to acknowledge correspondence, at the very least. Perhaps he had decided that she wasn't the girl for him. Maybe he just wasn't himself still. How badly had his experiences affected him? She wished she knew what was going on.

In the meantime, she distracted herself by throwing herself into her work. The Germans, in a last ditch attempt, had launched a big offensive and even more officers were being transferred to Downton from other hospitals in order to make room for the new casualties coming in from the front.

And although she continued to wait for him, for a second time in their engagement Edith gave up writing to Anthony. She didn't cry herself to sleep. She didn't complain to Sybil, or Cora, or Granny. She wasn't sure she even _felt_ much anymore beyond an all-pervading sadness and regret. She went through the motions of her duty, and just _existed_.

* * *

.

"Of course you bloody deserve it, Strallan! My only regret is that I couldn't make the argument that it should've been a VC stick with the War Office. Damn clerks, the lot of them! Don't know or have forgotten what it's like to be on a battlefield."

Maresfield, who was now a Major-General, had not bothered to temper his language on the telephone.

"But the other officers, our intelligence officers I mean…" argued Anthony.

"Some of them were almost as good as you, and I've recommended them for decorations as well. But a lot of them were lost trying to understand their place in trench warfare. Can't blame them, not really, if they learned their trade in India or Africa. Whole different kettle of cod! You, and about a dozen others, kept the whole bally show on the road!"

Anthony quietly muttered "I don't know what to say, sir."

"Then get off the bloody line, before I'm tempted to promote you. And get better! That's an order! This damned barney isn't over yet and if you can do it safely, I still need you here in London. D'you understand, Strallan? Good. Now, buzz off. Some of us are still fighting a ruddy war."

Anthony couldn't stifle a chuckle as he put down the receiver. Maresfield's tact and patience had been casualties of war, that was clear. But he was still the excellent Commanding Officer Anthony has known for two decades. After four years of war he was probably even more excellent now.

But if Maresfield thought he was worthy of a VC…

Anthony respected his Colonel's... _sorry, his Major-General's_...judgement, and Maresfield's recommendation meant a huge amount to him.

He made for the nurses' office. Although he thought it really was about time he learned how to write legibly with his left hand, there was something even more pressing that couldn't wait for him to acquire that particular skill. He needed to dictate a letter.

* * *

.

Robert's days had become bound by habit. He wore a uniform all day everyday. After breakfast he made an informal tour of the 'wards' and communal rooms attempting to bestow good morale and encouragement on the officers billeted under his roof...like a _real_ Colonel. (The officers themselves were polite to Robert in return, but were unconvinced, thinking, with good reason, that they were doing more to boost Robert's morale than the other way around.) After that he settled in the library to read _The Times_ from cover to cover. Luncheon provided a welcome interlude with Carson for company but rarely any members of his family. They were too busy being _useful._ In the afternoon he'd walk the dog, visiting his Mama sometimes or perhaps the wife of a tenant who'd been called up. At least he didn't have to change for dinner as he insisted on continuing to wear his uniform.

He was reading the dispatches and gazette over coffee when he saw it.

"Carson!"

"Yes, milord."

"Could you tell Lady Edith I'd like to see her at her earliest convenience? Thank you."

But Edith was reading letters to a blind officer, and it took her over half an hour to get down to the library, by which time Cora had come to her husband with the problem of whether she should seat a General or a Colonel-in-Chief of a regiment next to her at the next dinner party and they had both gone to the drawing room to discuss it with Mary and Matthew. Edith regarded the empty library, shrugged, and returned to her work.

The next time they were in the same room was at dinner. Robert could hardly contain himself, grinning over the soup tureen that Carson held for him.

"You look like the cat that has stolen all the cream, Robert" observed Violet.

"I have some good news, that's all" he replied.

"Well, that's a blessing" cried Cora. "We get so little of it these days. Are you going to tell us this good news of yours?"

"It isn't really so much mine as Edith's."

Everyone looked at Edith, who looked astonished back.

"Is this what you wanted to talk to me about earlier?" she asked.

"Indeed, it is. I read it in _The Times_. Anthony Strallan has been awarded a DSO."

There was a chorus of "Oh, how wonderful!" and "Good for him!". But when everyone had quietened down, Edith almost whispered "He didn't tell me." Then she rose, made a hasty apology, and left the room.

"But I thought she'd be happy" Robert moaned.

"Oh Robert!" exclaimed Cora. "She hasn't heard from him since he transferred hospitals! Not even to tell her this! What does that sound like to you? Excuse me everyone."

She got up to follow her daughter, but she was stopped by Violet.

"Cora, allow me. There are some things a woman will happily share with her grandmother that she'd be too embarrassed to tell her mother" Violet said, taking her cane from Carson and making for the door, adding in a less serious voice "even one as American and disconcertingly broad-minded as you!"

"Lady Edith is in the library, my lady" Carson informed her quietly and she acknowledged it with a nod, walking at her customary stately pace.

"By the time I get there she will have had a chance for a good weep, which is no bad thing!"

Violet was right. She put her hand on Edith's shoulder in silent sympathy, but all Edith could say was "Oh Granny!" and hugged her.

"There, there. Have a good cry, you'll feel better for it, and then we'll sort it all out tomorrow. We'll get Clarkson to telephone Harrogate and speak to his doctor and we'll find out what's going on."

"But Granny...!"

"Now dear, you've lived through the worst war this country has ever fought. During that time did you ever know _anything_ to go according to plan? The whole world has been through chaos, and we're not finished yet. Everything from battles to royal proclamations has been in disarray. Why do you think a letter from Harrogate to Downton should be delivered without mishap? We are not immune to the universal disorganisation, Edith. So let's not jump to conclusions until we have some definite facts. Now, wipe your eyes and come and eat. Sir Anthony's bravery has been recognised, quite rightly, and he'll not thank you for losing faith now. Besides, Mrs Patmore will sulk otherwise, and I assure you that the Kaiser himself cannot hold a candle to her when she's roused."

.

Edith pulled herself together, not without some difficulty, and rejoined the family in the dining room with her grandmother. No one said a word out of turn then, or referred to the subject again during the meal. Once or twice Violet noticed Cora giving Mary and Robert a very meaningful look, and smiled to herself.

* * *

.

The next morning Edith looked like she hadn't slept a wink, and Sybil said so.

"No, I don't think I did, Syb. What if he...?" She stopped herself and muttered under her breath to herself rather than to her sister "No, I mustn't think like that." She looked up brightly and in a braver voice asked "Who are we visiting first today?"

Sybil put her hand on Edith's arm.

"Sir Anthony is a very, _very_ brave man, and one would expect him to choose a wife just as brave, as indeed he did."

Edith smiled a watery smile back at her, then roughly wiped her eyes and briskly began her duties.

They were helping their fourth patient when Carson approached them holding a silver salver.

"A letter for you, Lady Edith" he intoned "with a Harrogate postmark", his usual professional veneer cracking into a slight, encouraging smile.

For a moment she couldn't move.

"Go on...go and read it" urged Sybil, breaking the spell. Edith took the envelope and gave Carson the sunniest, most grateful grin he'd ever received, then she positively ran through and out of the house down to the folly. She sat in her accustomed place, panting from running and anticipation, staring at the envelope. The handwriting wasn't his, but that meant nothing. All his letters since he'd returned from France had been dictated, she knew. With shaking hands she opened the letter and read.

 _14th September 1918_

 _My dearest, darling Edith,_

 _Please forgive my silence. I have been ill these last few weeks, but things have greatly improved with the help of my excellent physician, Dr Weaver, and, of course, your wonderful letters which, I can say without exaggeration, have saved my life and my sanity._

 _Like you, I would like to turn the clock back and return to Downton Station, as it were, and to start again from where the war came between us. I am still building my strength, but Dr Weaver thinks I will be well enough to return home to Locksley in about a week once there are enough staff there. You probably know that Stewart was refused active service on the grounds of his health, and instead did his bit as a driver in the Royal Army Service Corps. He still manages Locksley, and I'm terribly grateful to him._

 _Either way, I hope to see you very soon. We have much to discuss._

 _With all my love,_

 _Your_

 _Anthony_

* * *

.

 _ **Don't forget Andith Fest 6th—9th September. Enormous thanks to Lady Tarlea who is organising it again this year!**_


	16. Chapter 16

Edith quietly rejoined her sister who was making beds.

"So?" Sybil asked, across the bed.

Edith smiled at her.

"He didn't write because he's been ill, but he's getting better now. He hopes to be back at Locksley in..."

She stopped, the dates swimming in her head. Pulling the letter out of her pocket she looked at the postmark again.

"Heavens! He might even be there now! He said he hoped to come home in about a week, and the letter was dated well over a week ago! It took ten days to get here."

She stuffed the paper back in her apron, and continued folding the sheets.

"Granny was right...as usual" she muttered to herself.

"Then no doubt he'll contact you as soon as things at Locksley are in a presentable state. You know how proper he is. He wouldn't want you visiting while there were still sheets over the chairs." Sybil smiled fondly at her, only a hint of teasing in her voice, and suddenly Edith was hugging her.

"Oh, Syb! I can't wait! It's been so long!"

"Can we at least finish this bed before you dash off to see him?" joked Sybil.

"I think, having waited this long, I should wait for him to be ready, don't you?"

"Thank you. I don't know what I would've told Major Clarkson if he'd found me trying to bed-bath Captain Edwards all by myself!"

* * *

.

Morning, in the library the next day...

"There is a telephone call for you, my lord..." began Carson.

Robert put the newspaper down with some speed, glad to have something to do, and rose to answer it, interrupting the butler.

"Any idea who it is, Carson?"

"Sir Anthony Strallan, my lord."

"Good heavens, Carson, why didn't you say so?" Robert hastened to the hall as Carson rolled his eyes behind his master's back.

"Anthony? Robert here. How are you?"

"Oh, you know, can't complain. How are you?" Robert thought that the voice on the other end was rather hesitant, but that could've been caused by a bad line.

"We're all pulling together over here, you know, doing our bit. Where are you?"

"I'm at Locksley. I arrived a couple of days ago and Stewart and I have been putting the old place back in order."

"Not falling to bits, I hope?"

"No, no! Nothing like that, just...finding sufficient staff and enough firewood and so on. You know the type of thing."

"Of course, of course. What can we do for you, old chap?"

"I was wondering if I might...well, if I might drop in one afternoon this week...to see you, and...and all the family. It's been too long."

 _And to see one member of my family in particular!_ thought Robert.

"Yes, of course. In fact, would you like to come over for dinner? Perhaps tonight, if you're not tied up?"

"Well, yes, I'd love to, but, er…"

"Tomorrow any better?"

"Um, yes, actually...if I won't be intruding."

"Not at all. We tend to wear uniform for dinner, just fatigues not mess rags, and be here for seven for drinks?"

"Yes, that's very kind. Thank you."

"See you then."

.

This time, sensibly, Robert decided to tell his wife before doing anything else. Cora, beaming with pleasure, changed the seating arrangements so that Edith and Anthony could sit together, and told Mrs Hughes. Mrs Hughes, pleased as punch, told Mrs Patmore, who gleefully suggested she change the pudding to Apple Charlotte if the sugar would stretch. Mrs Hughes also told Mr Carson, who called Mr Stewart to ascertain one or two details that he had heard mentioned, and then solemnly instructed the footmen how to serve a man with only one working arm correctly, without causing offence or embarrassment either to Sir Anthony or the rest of the party.

Next, Cora found Edith and Sybil playing a hand of bridge with two officers and waited quietly until they had finished their game.

"My dear, could I have a word?" she said quietly over Edith's shoulder.

Sybil nodded that she could get the men back to bed without her. Cora led her along the upstairs gallery to a place where they could talk privately.

"Edith, your father received a telephone call this morning from Sir Anthony. He's coming to dinner tomorrow evening."

Edith just stared at her mother in shock. Everything she had been through in the last four years, the letters, her dreams, they all felt like she was in a dream, imagining events that were taking place somewhere else. Sometimes she even wondered whether she had invented a tall, kind man called Sir Anthony Strallan. But this, _this_ was concrete. In a day, a single day, she would see Anthony again.

"Edith you are pleased, aren't you darling?"

"Oh yes" she nodded distractedly, "very much so. It's just...it's been _four years_ , Mama! I must've changed in that time, I'm sure I have. And...so has he. I just don't know what to expect. He probably won't be looking for the same things anymore. I don't want to disappoint him."

"Of course you won't disappoint him, sweetheart! Tomorrow, Anna and I will look through your wardrobe with you and we'll make sure that you look the very best you can." She gave Edith a supportive squeeze on her arm.

"It'll be fine, my darling."

Edith couldn't keep her mind on anything for the rest of the day.

* * *

.

She did look good, she admitted. Mama had chosen well. She wore a damask pink dress that showed her figure to advantage. Anna had done her hair so that it looked alluring but modest.

They had gathered in the drawing room. Everyone had made an effort and had arrived earlier than usual: Granny, Cousin Isobel, Papa, Mama, Mary and Matthew, Sybil, and her. Talk happened in fits and starts with no one managing to keep a conversation going for very long. The atmosphere was stifling. She was tense as a spring.

Barrow entered and announced "Sir Anthony Strallan".

And there he was.

Tall, handsome, and in uniform.

Just as he had been on Downton Station four years before. Except that this time, when he saw her, he wasn't surprised and he didn't frown. He wore an expression like he had been a man in purgatory and he'd just found paradise. His eyes, blue as ever, burrowed into her soul and found refuge there. She was taken aback by just how much pain she could see behind his expression, but also by how much longing.

Cora broke the spell.

"Sir Anthony, how lovely it is to see you back!"

He jolted himself to the present and once more became the perfect gentleman.

"Lady Grantham, thank you so much for inviting me. It is a great pleasure."

Papa reached out to shake his hand but Anthony, meekly, held out his left hand. It was only then that she noticed the black silk sling and his right arm resting in it over his chest. It took Robert several seconds to dig himself out of the faux pas and to also offer his left hand for Anthony to shake, but Anthony smoothed things over and then everything was all right again. Conversation began to flow more freely.

This was her cue.

"Sir Anthony, it's so lovely to see you." A bland opening, suitable for a meeting in public.

"Lady Edith, it's been far too long." She offered her left hand and he took it, but didn't shake. He bent over it and kissed it. She blushed fiercely and could almost _feel_ the smile Granny was wearing.

"Your mother tells me that I'm taking you in. It was very sweet of her to allow us to sit together."

He looked so _frightened_. She suddenly thought _Do I look like that?_

* * *

.

Stewart had been a hero, there was no other word. Locksley was still in mothballs, but everything was fine. Although there were no staff, the roof didn't leak and there was no sign of damp or mold. It would be months before everything was back to normal, if it ever could be after all that had happened.

Sleeping in his own bed after so long was a strange and almost surreal experience on the first night. The second night was better. He heard Weaver's voice in his head and decided that he was going to be optimistic about this, and that things were going to improve, day by day.

Once he felt that the farm girls whom Stewart had engaged to work in the kitchen were ready, he had rung Downton expecting to ask Edith over for tea. What he found himself doing was accepting Robert's invitation to dinner the next night. After he had hung up, he began going into a flat spin of panic and no amount of remembering Weaver's wise words of advice helped.

What did help, was Stewart. The poor man found Anthony sitting on the main staircase hyperventilating.

"Oh no" he said under his breath, before keeping his voice steady and saying "Major, breathe in time with me, slower, slower, yes, that's good, now through your nose. Excellent."

He took Anthony's elbow and led him through to the library then quickly fetched him a cup of tea. Only after that did he ask what had startled him so much.

"Dinner at the Abbey. Tomorrow night! Do I...I mean, have I got a suitable uniform? Will it…?"

"Will you be requiring your mess dress, sir?"

"No, Grantham says just fatigues."

"In that case, yes, sir, it will be fine. The uniform you wore back from Harrogate has been laundered and I have taken the liberty of sewing your DSO ribbon onto your medal bar. Might I suggest a moderate hair trim, but otherwise you could go along tonight and be no disgrace to me."

Anthony gave a watery chuckle.

"Thank you, Stewart. And I apologise…"

"No need to apologise, sir."

"It takes you at the oddest moments, you know."

"Absolutely, sir, but the episode did not last long and you dealt with it admirably."

"As I said, thank you Stewart. It _is_ good to be home."

* * *

.

He walked trying to be tall through the dark corridors, following the footman who was as equally stiff as he was. _She loves you. She loves you. She loves you_ he repeated. But the other voices would not be silenced. _What if she decides she doesn't any more? Then so be it. You have to find out one way or another. I can cope. I can cope. I can cope. But what if I can't? Yes you can._

Before he could recite any more mantras, he'd been announced and he was there, finally in the same room as Edith, who looked even more beautiful than he remembered. She had lost that little girl look. Now she had defined, womanly curves and a superb elegance about her. Her chocolate eyes gazed into his. There was a cosmic stillness about her.

Then Lady Grantham was at his side providing pleasantries and many years training to be a gentleman overrode a few years training to be a soldier, and he surprised himself how easy it was to be polite once more, but unlike before the war, he'd could never be polite _and facile with it_ ever again. He answered her oh-so-proper questions honestly.

Robert tried to shake his hand. This was something he had expected from someone. He sighed inwardly and offered his left hand instead. After a few seconds' confusion, the earl caught on and swapped hands. Anthony continued talking over it and the moment passed. _Well, that wasn't so bad._

"Sir Anthony, it's so lovely to see you."

Her voice had changed too. It was deeper, richer. _What were you expecting her to say in the middle of a crowded drawing room? Give her time. Give yourself time._

"Lady Edith, it's been far too long." She offered her left hand. That, however, was not how he had dreamt of this moment. He took it, bent over it, and kissed it. He saw how she blushed and wondered if it was from pleasure or embarrassment.

"Your mother tells me that I'm taking you in. It was very sweet of her to allow us to sit together."

 _Please still want me, my darling girl._

"It seemed appropriate, and we have so much to catch up on. You can tell me how Locksley is."

"Locksley seems to have weathered the storm rather well, thanks to Stewart."

They went in to the dining room, Edith on his arm, and they talked and talked. They talked of easy things, nothing too serious or taxing as though they had tacitly agreed that starting slowly was the best way to begin again: how the harvest was going on both their estates especially with so many men away, the quality of the food in various hospitals including Downton. Cora didn't turn, to allow them to chat without interruption, but she did have to bring proceedings to a conclusion at the end of the meal by rising and gathering the ladies together to go through.

That left Anthony with the men. Of all of them only Matthew had seen action at the front. It surprised Anthony to find that it was Matthew who sought his company.

"Major." He bowed his head casually in acknowledgement.

"Captain. How are you?"

"Oh, you know, can't complain."

"Will they be sending you back to the front soon?" asked Anthony with genuine concern.

"I expect they will. What about you...I mean, will they be discharging you?"

"I've been asked to go back behind a desk in London to help with the planning for the autumn push...if there ever is one."

"No one seems to know what's going on over there do they, not really. How was meeting Edith again after all this time?"

Anthony was quiet for a moment, staring into his brandy.

"Lovely, really lovely. But like the war, I don't really know what's going on. Has she really not had...anyone else…?" He stuttered to an embarrassed halt.

Matthew smiled at him.

"No. She's been stoic and brave while you were, well, wherever you were, and then overjoyed that you were back. Although…"

"Yes" Anthony prompted with dread.

"...she was a bit knocked for six that you didn't tell her about your DSO. Congratulations by the way."

"Hmm" responded Anthony "I'm not sure it counts for very much, but I'm sorry Edith felt neglected. That was never my intention. Things just...got out of hand for a bit and when I was well again, the news was out. Thank you for telling me, Matthew. I needed to know."

"You're welcome. But I don't think you have much to worry about. Edith…"

But whatever he was going to say was lost in Robert's hearty "Shall we join the ladies?" and the clamour of chairs being pushed back and voices becoming louder.


	17. Chapter 17

_**More apologies for the length of time that it takes me to write a chapter these days. Sorry.**_

* * *

.

Anthony followed the unhurried line of gentlemen back to the drawing room. He immediately looked around for her. She was talking to her cousin Isobel. Everything was so natural, so normal. So _abnormal_ for him, so out of place. This beautiful, quiet drawing room was so civilised, populated as it was by ladies in gorgeous evening gowns, although the gentlemen...the men...were all in uniform like they had been in the German trenches, just a different uniform. He, however, had spent over three years in tattered and patched rags of lowly work clothes, a thick woollen jumper so often mended that it was more knots than knitting. His uniform had been the thing that had almost got him killed.

A passing footman offered him coffee and his attention was jerked back to the present. The DSO ribbon on his chest burned. It was the highest ranking decoration in the room. He had seen people looking at it all evening. Why him? Why?

Weaver's voice in his head told him to breathe deeply and slowly, and he did. It made a slight difference, but even a slight difference meant that _**he**_ was in charge, not the panic. Blocking all other sounds from his head, he grasped that tiny sliver of control. The accusing roar in his head slowly subsided.

When he felt he could safely do so, he looked up, looked for her again. She had crossed the room, come towards him but had been stopped by Lady Delaware who was visiting her son who was upstairs. He had lost a leg. Edith was kindly answering questions about him, but looking round at Anthony with increasing impatience. He smiled, and she smiled back. That smile made everything worth it. He could bear anything, he thought, if he could carry on being the recipient of those smiles.

Finally, she was free. She handed her coffee cup to Carson and approached him. He shook his head in disbelief. Why had she settled for him?

"Hello again" she murmured in a way that was far more darkly alluring and exciting than she had intended, he was sure.

"Hello" he managed to respond.

Despite the ease with which they had talked of flippant things at dinner, now that they had to think about the future, what would happen after this evening, they were both tongue-tied, staring at each other, each trying to guess what the other was thinking. Somehow, Anthony found the courage to break the impasse.

"I was thinking, hoping really...and of course you may be far too busy...I'm well aware how much you are needed here...but, if you would like to, you would always be welcome to...to t-tea at Locksley. I think we can rustle up a scone and a cup of something."

She burst into a huge, beaming smile, and he knew that she had just been waiting for him to show his hand.

"I would like that very much."

"Excellent. Would tomorrow…?"

"Tomorrow would be fine, I'm sure. I'll speak to Major Clarkson. Four o'clock?"

"Four, yes. Do you have a driver, or shall I send Stewart to collect you?"

All the other guests were slipping away, some to leave to go home, some to return to their duties upstairs with the officers.

She turned to lead him towards the front door, and quietly divulged over her shoulder "No need. I drive myself these days".

He wasn't shocked, but he was taken aback.

"How...how marvellous! I always knew…" He stopped as Carson helped him into his coat.

"Knew what?"

"Knew that you were the most astonishingly splendid woman I had ever met."

She blushed and looked down, genuinely embarrassed and he was inordinately pleased.

"Until tomorrow then."

He took her hand and kissed it again, and then he was gone.

* * *

.

Stewart was amused and worried in equal measure. Sir Anthony had been looking out of the library windows eagerly for the last hour and it still wanted ten minutes to four o'clock.

"Are you sure about this tie, Stewart? It's not too...gaudy?"

Stewart glanced down to hide his grin. Sir Anthony would never be caught dead wearing any item of clothing that could be called 'gaudy'.

"It is just a shade lighter in colour, sir, than the one you wore yesterday, and in my opinion, if I may say so, it better complements the tweed of the suit."

 _... and it brings out the blue of your eyes, which is more to the point when meeting Lady Edith…and when you keep putting obstacles in your own way you'll need all the help you can get…_

"I don't think she's coming, Stewart. Something's got in the way, or...or she _found_ something to get in the way."

He continued staring up the driveway though, like a small boy waiting for Father Christmas with hope and disbelief the equally matched forces battling for his heart.

Stewart coughed.

"Yes, Stewart?"

"Even if your supposition were accurate, sir, I believe Lady Edith would still have the manners to inform you that she had been unavoidably detained."

Anthony frowned at the window pane.

"Mmm" was his only reply.

Stewart vaguely wondered if his master was going to be like this all the way up until the wedding. He might have to have a discreet word with Lady Edith herself.

At that moment, Anthony sighed. The large, unwieldy car was brought round the wide arc of his driveway and brought to a stop before his front door with exquisite control. He admired it as a beautiful piece of driving; the fact that it was Lady Edith driving made him quite helpless with love.

Stewart had long since left the library and was ready to greet the visitor when she alighted from her vehicle. Anthony heard the conversation in the hall.

"Good afternoon, my lady."

"Good afternoon, Stewart. It's been a very long time since I saw you last. Have you been well?"

"Very well, thank you, my lady; just extremely busy, as we all are."

"Indeed. But good to see you."

"Thank you, my lady. Sir Anthony awaits you in the library."

"Thank you."

She had dreamed of this library for four long years. It was where she was most at home, where she was most herself, where she was happiest. There were times when she wondered if she would ever see it again. She stepped through the doorway slowly.

"Lady Edith."

He said her name almost reverently and a thrill ran up her spine.

"Sir Anthony, thank you for inviting me. It's so lovely to see Locksley again." _And you, of course, and you._

"The pleasure, I assure you, is all mine. Please, come in, sit."

Suddenly, his confidence was back, at least in saying the accepted, time-worn niceties, and in his own domain. He sat opposite where she had on the sofa, and launched into an enquiry into everyone's health.

.

She was soon very much at her ease. He was at pains to make sure she was comfortable, and although he seemed to want to talk about easy things still, she didn't mind what they talked about as long as she could be in his company. But there was one thing she really had to raise. During a long pause in conversation she took her opportunity.

"Can I ask...did you ever receive my answer to your letter?"

The change was tangible. His eyes snapped into an unhappy, haunted expression and she felt ashamed to have asked at all.

"Sorry, you don't have to answer that now."

He took her hand gently.

"No, no. You deserve to know. I...that is...I don't know where to begin."

She tried to help.

"I received your letter written in London just before you left for the Continent. It took some time to discover how I could write to you, but your Colonel was most obliging."

"Yes" Anthony smiled, "I expect he would be. He's a Major General now, you know."

"I'm glad. He seemed a...a most capable man. I sent my letters to him and he sent them on to you, he said."

"And I daresay he did, at least to begin with. But I was captured within a week of the war beginning. Everything moved so fast at the start, and then got so bogged down in the mud and trenches for so very, very long. I had a couple of telephone conversations with Maresfield, but I never received any orders or letters from him; nothing written."

"Oh."

They were both quiet, not knowing how to broach this last obstacle.

"I want you to know that I did answer your letter. I did answer your question. I answered…"

Anthony broke in with an almost frightened… "Anyway, so much time has passed, I couldn't _possibly_ insist on anything you said then."

"Even so, Anthony, I want you to know that I accepted you."

She could see the setting sun glinting in his wet eyes.

"Really? Oh Edith, if I had known that it would have made all the difference when I was so hungry I would've eaten belt leather if I'd had any, like some of the other chaps. When I was on trial for my life, and when I was shot in No Man's Land, it was only the thought of you that kept me alive. You stopped me from giving up hope and sinking into death. _You saved my life_."

He bent his head and kissed her hand, not so gently this time.

"But things have changed. Time has aged me beyond those four years, no don't try to say otherwise! I know they have, in looks and in health, whereas you have blossomed into such a wonderful woman, poised with elegance and achievement. You can drive a car! What other things might you accomplish! And then, of course, there's this…"

He indicated his dead arm.

When he looked up again, she leaned forward, almost angry in her declarations.

"What happened to you was tragic, just like all the young men I have tended to throughout this war! I hate what happened to you! You didn't deserve it! But I would be shallow indeed if my feelings for you were affected by a...a wound."

She sat back again, reeling in her passion.

"I have grown up, that is true. But if I am to find my full potential, I would do so more quickly and with more satisfaction if I could do it with the support of...of the man I love, wounded or not."

"You still love me? Do you really?" His voice was so husky that she only just heard the words.

"Yes, of course I do, silly."

"And if I said that I found that difficult to believe?"

"I would say that I would just have to find many and varied ways of reminding you."

"Oh Edith!" He looked down, not quite believing that they had found each other again.

"And I'll start with this one" and she bent her head up to his to kiss him.

He immediately started away from her.

"Edith! I...I cannot insult you like that. I…"

She moved towards him, unhurried and unyielding.

"You forget, sir, that we have been engaged for over four years. Two kisses in _such_ a long time is surely the height of chastity and restraint."

She quirked an eyebrow to make him laugh and relax again, which he did.

"I suppose you are right."

Awkward and fumbling, Sir Anthony Strallan kissed his fiancée.

* * *

.

When he came to clear away the tea things some time later, Stewart listened at the door and heard no voices, no sounds, nothing. Smiling quietly, he decided to return to the Servants' Hall until Sir Anthony rang for him.

* * *

.

 ** _Next time, the wedding!_**

 ** _Many thanks to everyone who kept encouraging me to write, especially Guest!_**


End file.
